Two Summers
by jAnon
Summary: UPDATE: Ch 25-26. Jim wakes up, sob tearing through him like a chainsaw slicing into the bark xylem heartwood. Warning- Emotionally intense.
1. First Summer, 1

Jim wakes up, sob tearing through him like a chainsaw slicing into the bark xylem heartwood. Chest aching, heart thudding unevenly through his ribcage and in his ears.

"When you wake up, try to get control of your breathing. Deep inhales and slow exhales."

"I can't. You know I can't. It doesn't do shit for my heartbeat."

"I never said it would. But it helps your mind calm down a bit. Panic can only exacerbate the situation. So try that, the next time you get an attack."

He shudders as he inhales, the muscles of his back spasm like an electric current is being run through the myofibrils. Heart pounds and irregular beat while Jim tries to push some air into his lungs. All he hears are his desperate gasps and he knows if he doesn't hypo himself, he's going to pass out.

"What if it doesn't work?"

"Try to make it work."

"I need something if it doesn't work."

Bones narrows his eyes at Jim. He holds out a pack of hyposprays and refill capsules.

"Only if nothing else works. You could get dependent on these, and that's not what's supposed to happen. You've been avoiding issues—"

"Thanks. I'll see you later."

Maybe it'd be better to pass out. Then he wouldn't be aware of anything.

No. This isn't who he is. Jim reaches back into his mind and recalls a meditative exercise that's helped him through these episodes before. First concentrate on his heart. Imagine it pulsing asymmetrically, imagine where the mitral valve isn't closing completely like it should, sending the rest of the muscle and thick arteries into fits. Now, inhale.

The voice that tells him these things in his mind is never his own. He pushes that thought aside.

Inhale deeply, into the pit of your stomach. Hold the breath there and feel it expanding inside, concentrate on the tension of your muscles. Do not imagine yourself to be filling your lungs, Jim. If you do so, your breaths will continue to be shallow. Exhale slowly, control the flow of air internally, not simply through your mouth. Inhale.

He can feel his mind settling and his consciousness grabbing the reigns of his bodily panic. He can do this. Just breathe in and out, don't think about anything except trying to breathe.

"Captain?"

"Lt. Uhura."

"I called my mother."

Jim blinks.

"She said two summers."

"Two summers for what?"

"Two summers before the grief rides itself out."

"You realize that's a completely Terran concept of time? We don't have seasons here. And where am I supposed to begin counting? Summer in Iowa is winter in Australia."

"I just wanted you to know."

He can feel his heart relaxing. Sometimes he thinks that it's literally trying to break free from its prison to join its other half. The first time the thought occurred to him, he began laughing hysterically until tears and snot spewed out of the orifices of his face, his hand clutching his heart again and air slowly choking out of his system. He passed out on the floor. Woke up in Sickbay, Bones wearing a tired look on his face.

"I have no idea how, but you've developed a mitral valve prolapse."

"In Standard?"

"You've got yourself a heart problem."

"You diagnosed and cured me of that other one."

"I've got a theory in the works that this is somehow related to your episode of Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, but I have no idea how. There's nothing in the literature about something like this."

"Will my work be affected?"

"It doesn't look too severe. But I want to monitor you for a couple days."

"Fine."

"I've got another theory. Jim, you _need_ to take some time off. Have Nyota or Sulu take the conn for a few shifts."

"No."

"You're trying to suppress this and it's wreaking havoc on your body."

"I've got to get to the bridge. Are we done here."

"Jim, listen—"

"Keep me posted on anything new."

For a few minutes, he just sits, breathing, occasionally shuddering. The tightness in his body uncurls, leaving feeling absolutely boneless and liquid. Mind blank. That's the most he can ask for these days—a state of grey. Routine days when he doesn't think or feel anything, just goes through the motions of diplomatic scientific trade exploratory military reconnaissance missions. Or adrenaline. Firefights are always good. Instincts and feelings and remnants of logic roaring in his blood, Jim's become the best military tactician Starfleet's got.

"Scotty, I need more."

"I'm giving it everything she's got, captain!"

"It's not good enough. Did you reroute the secondary valves and bypass directly into the antimatter pods?"

"I can't do it fast enough, Jim! The only person who was able to pull that trick was—"

"Do it now that's an order or I will court martial you for insubordination, Scotty."

Sometimes he forgets that others are hurting just as much as he is. Once, he gave Chekov the reprimand of his life. Everyone on the bridge gaped. Sulu gave him one angry look then didn't speak to him for the rest of the shift, Uhura tensed and blinked back tears. He saw all their reactions and got defensive. After a few rounds against a punching bag, his feelings poured out with the sweat soaking his skin.

He apologized to everyone personally. They said they understood. He knows they did. But he doesn't allow himself a lapse like that again. The crew takes a lot of confidence in him and they're looking to him to lead them. Not break. There's no time for emotion or that shore leave Bones keeps talking about. Jim stuffs a world of thought and feeling into a box and doesn't let himself think about the irony of the situation.

"Up for a round of fencing, captain?"

"Yeah. I could go for that."

These matches can get really intense.

Then Jim collapses, heart squeezing and chest exploding in pain.

"Captain? Mattila, get Doc McCoy. Captain, can you hear me? Someone get a tricorder, is he going into cardiac arrest?"

No, he's not arresting. He doesn't know how he knows this, but he knows.

In the back of his mind, he wishes he had Sulu's magic ability to appear calm no matter what.

"Sulu, get him on the gurney."

Lying in Sickbay. Lying on a biobed. Lying in his quarters. Lying in—they're no one's quarters now. A hole in the heart of the ship, a hole the heart of his body, a hole in the back of his mind, a hole in the crew and in his life. There's nothing he can do about it. Jim clenches his teeth and his knuckles strain as he makes a fist.

He's learned a lot of self control. It makes him a killer diplomat, the cold neutrality that people thought only Vulcans could pull off mixed with the charming manners that only humans can produce. It's why they were such a great team. But now Jim's trying to fill two places at once and that's impossible. He won't let anyone else replace the missing half, but he can't live without his right hand and shadow and so tries to compensate by spreading himself too thin.

"Why didn't you tell me things were getting worse."

"They were getting better. I've got it under control."

"My tricorder and your body don't lie, Jim. Unlike you."

"I only use the hypos if I think I'm gonna pass out."

"Jim."

"Other than that, I try to do that breathing exercise. It works, most of the time."

"Jim."

"I don't know what happened in there. I guess I'm just tired."

"Jim, Spock's dead."

Silence.

"I know. I was there when it happened. You were there for the funeral. Funerals."

"No, listen to me. Spock's dead."

"I heard you the first time."

Bones grabs him.

"Spock. Is. Dead."

Jim shoves him.

"Don't fuck with me, Bones."

The doctor's got a firm grip.

"Spock is dead. He's not coming back. You did the best you could, but he's dead. You've got to move on, Jim."

"Shut up."

"Let go—"

"_Will you just shut the _fuck_ up_!"

Chest heaving, heart pounding, wails and screaming and gnashing of teeth and tearing out hair and sackcloth and ashes and sores under his skin beneath it all is a heart literally bleeding because the valve doesn't shut properly a heart broken and sobbing the only way it knows how.

"Fuck this, I'm leaving."

Jim runs to the Observation Deck and locks it with his captain's code. He falls to his knees, heart rattling and sending bursts of pain through his chest. Breathing is impossible. Jim finds himself on the floor of the deck, vision blurring as he stares out at the stars and blackness.

He forces himself back up to his feet, only have a scream yell despair rip through him and send him reeling. Suddenly he's pummeling the shit out of walls and stars and the galaxy. His hands are a mess, bleeding and broken, leaving smears on the panels.

Anger and grief and betrayal coursing through him like a wildfire his heart is beating madly and Jim vaguely remembers that time when Spock must've been feeling the same thing but Jim emotionally compromised him and Jim thinks he's a sick sonuvabitch to use that—_this_—against anyone and the only thing he can think is that Spock is gone Spock is dead Spock left me I'll never see him again never feel touch smell taste hear share talk laugh smile joke fight fuck love hate lean want feel touch smell him again he's dead and green blood and cold body that was a furnace buried on Vulcan body returning to sand and ashes and dust and Spock oh Spock please come back please be alive this is just a dream I love you please be alive I can't live without you I can't even fucking breathe without you this is just a dream I'll wake up and you'll be in my bed and we'll make love and you'll whisper to me and I'll kiss you and hold you and never let you go this isn't real you can't leave me I can't live without you don't die that's an order hang on and don't die but that's not even how it happened I love you I love you don't leave me alone in this universe you promised me you'd never leave you promised you bastard you promised you'd always be there fuck you I hate you breaking your promise we were supposed to live forever you can't die you can't be dead how do I breathe without you

It's Chapel who finds him in the Observation Deck. He knows it's not logical but he latches onto her tight enough to expel all the air from her lungs. She doesn't protest. Instead, her embrace is as fierce as his and she rocks him back and forth as if he's a little boy, rubbing circles into his back.

Jim just hangs on, grasping and gasping for his life.

"Thanks, Chris."

"Go easy on him, Leonard."

"I will. That was necessary."

She shakes her head. "It takes time."

"I know."

"Do you? When they told me Roger was missing, likely dead... It takes time."

"We'll pull through. For Jim, and for Spock."

"Two summers. That's how long it took me."

"Spock died in the winter, so it'll be shorter, then. We'll pull through. Two summers isn't that long."

"Two summers are a grey eternity."


	2. First Summer, 2

They never had a last moment. Or last words. It was just a matter of find Spock dead. Jim didn't even get to see him die. He didn't feel it through their bond either. Bones told him later that death was instantaneous. Jim wanted to retort that of course death was instantaneous, Spock's brains were splattered on the ground. But all he could do was nod and stare at the dark green blood and brain oozing into his hand as he cradled Spock to his body.

They notified Sarek. Jim contacted Ambassador Selek. He doesn't really remember what was said. He remembers an irrational surge of anger towards the other Spock, that he's still living while his Spock is not. And the thought that it must be really weird to have to bury a younger version of yourself. With Sarek, he watches as the man's world seems to fall apart. Lost a wife, a planet, a child. There's nothing more the galaxy can take from him.

Jim recalls that there were some vague feelings of pride that he didn't lose it in front of the crew. While Nyota Sulu Chekov Christine Scotty Bones all cried at one point or another, got roaringly drunk at multiple points, babbled incoherently about what they missed about Spock, Jim never did. He was the one comforting them, more often than not, talking about how Spock would want this or Spock thought that or fond memories Spock had of some moment. He and Spock had shared a bond, after all. It left some residual traces in Jim's mind. Jim didn't pretend that his words would heal the wounds in the crew, but he hoped that it would ease the passing a little.

He kept it together through the funeral arrangements, through the three services—one for the crew of the _Enterprise_, one held by Starfleet, the last one done planetside on Vulcan II—he gave different eulogies at each one, emphasizing a different aspect of Spock's life. No tears, only heavy words like a wet wool coat. He was a little surprised by his own reaction to all this, but didn't think much else of it.

Starfleet gave them a brief period for rest. He didn't expect it, given that they are a military institution. But Jim took what he could get. Starfleet had to approve his promotions—he chose Uhura for First Officer, bumped Sulu up to lieutenant commander—anyway. He visited with the crew, talked to them, put in requests for additional psychological services, got really close to the Medical Department in the process. He monitored the psych evals critically until levels indicated that the worst of the grief was over. For most. Then he submitted all the paperwork, waited for Starfleet to give them the go ahead, and they were off in space again. Things proceeded normally. He ignored the looks that Bones gave him, the glances of Nyota and Sulu, Chekov's hovering, Christine's frown, Scotty taking him aside to have a Scottish heart to heart, of all things. He was fine.

Then, Jim's heart gave out.

From there, things fell apart. The center could not hold. (Mere anarchy was loosed upon his world.)

His heart felt like it was breaking.

There's nothing to describe the pain he felt, like someone implanted a bomb inside him and detonated it. Reflexively, he put his hand to the ache and for the life of him could not breathe. It was like the beat was fluttering and choking at the same time, the organ weak and clawing to keep the blood flowing. When Jim finally gasped for some air, the pain bloomed and spiked through him until there was nothing he could do but cry helplessly.

It happened on the bridge. The crew freaked out, understandably. A few thought he was having a heart attack. They were about to hook up the defibrillators when Bones burst through with his tricorder and stopped them.

"Takotsubo cardiomyopathy," he pronounced. "Broken heart syndrome."

Jim really wanted to laugh, but it ended up as more of a gagging sound.

After the diagnosis and the cure, Bones tried to talk him into discussing things, spewing random crap about how his emotions were manifesting themselves in his body since he wasn't dealing with them and blah blah blah. He stopped listening.

"Jim, are you listening to me?"

"No."

Sometimes he dreamed. Nightmares, fantasies, those weird dreams that feel completely real. Sometimes he's wake up with his pillow drenched, other times the sheets. Then there were those terrifying episodes when he felt like his heart stopped or was racing and it was like his lungs were cut off from the rest of his body and he was going to black out any minute now. Any minute now and Spock would be there holding him and telling him not to be afraid because he'd always be there. He couldn't remember anymore if those words were real or part of his dreams.

"Spock," he called out and there would be a reply, Spock would be there with raised eyebrow and warm body and he'd answer like he always had.

Instead.

Silence.

And it didn't make sense but it felt like a betrayal, like being stabbed in his heart through his back. _He_ was supposed to be the one that died, _he_ was supposed to be the one to go first, _he_ was supposed to risk his life and leave Spock with this heartrending grief. Spock was supposed to be the one left alone, that's always how it worked in his mind. It's a selfish feeling and totally irrational but Spock betrayed him when he died without a warning, without a goodbye. They made promises never to leave each other and that Vulcan bastard broke his promise and in breaking his promise broke Jim.

He's supposed to be the one that died because he knew this would happen, that in some way or another he wouldn't survive Spock's death. Spock's always been the stronger one. His alternate self is still alive, isn't he? Alive and active, despite the years and the experience and the grief Jim felt when they melded in the cave. It wasn't supposed to happen this way, damnit and Spock betrayed everything they had by dying.

And now?

There's nothing left of him and their love but a heart broken in fifteen ways and the endless grey of Jim's existence.


	3. First Summer, 3

Jim suddenly can't stand being on the _Enterprise_. Every single fucking thing about the ship reminds him of Spock. There's no place on the ship that he can escape. And there's also the fact that his Silver Lady silver bitch failed the one time she should never have failed. It's a piece of the Federation's best technology, the pride and power of the fleet, and Spock's dead. Jim figures this is what impotence feels like.

He hates that he hates the _Enterprise_, and he hates that he needs her to be in space. So he avoids her as much as he can. Jim goes on every single Away Mission. He's the first to beam down, the last to beam up. When something goes wrong with the ship while they're in the middle of a crisis planetside, it appeals to the demented side of his sense of humor. It's a fact of life now. Of course she'd break down when he needs her most. Of course all the science and technology in the galaxy can't save his ass, just like it did nothing for Spock. That's always how it's been, it's always how it will be, and why did Jim think differently?

Spock betrayed him. His ship betrayed and keeps on betraying him. He's done everything to protect her and keep her safe, he gave and gave and gives and gives and couldn't she just give this one thing in return? Whatever. If he can't count on Spock anymore, he sure as hell can't rely on that silver illusion.

Bones still wants Jim to take a break, go planetside. That's not acceptable. Starfleet doesn't let people take breaks. Captains might be honorably discharged, but that's a one way street, no coming back. He hates the _Enterprise_, but where else would he go? Back to Iowa? Crash at his brother's place? Find an apartment in San Francisco? What would he do? Jim's a captain. It's in his blood, he doesn't know how to do anything else. There's nothing to do but watch his body and brain betray him too, stripping him of the little he has left. He's lost Spock. The _Enterprise_ finally revealed her true two facedness. Really, he should've seen it coming that his heart implodes regularly and his feelings run amok.

Jim reasserts control of his situation the way he always has.

He breaks every single fucking record in the fucking book, to the point where Starfleet wonders if Spock was holding him back and unnecessarily restricting his true potential. Maybe it was a good thing that the Vulcan died, if _this_ is what the new Captain Kirk of the starship _Enterprise_ produces. Jim's pretty sure that Pike's the only one who has a shot at guessing what's going on in Jim's mind.

Because in reality, it's because he has nothing to lose. Sure, he could lose Bones or Sulu or Uhura or Chekov or Scotty or Chapel or any of the crew. He still cares about their lives. But it's different now, without Spock there to act as his voice of reason. Sulu and Uhura keep him in check as best as they can, but they've got none of Spock's pull. Jim pictures himself as a wild horse, eyes rolling and head rearing back and snorting. Sulu and Nyota force a bridle on him and try to control him that way, pulling too hard at the reins and the metal bit saws into his mouth. Spock knew how and when to reel him in, knew how to approach him and how to hold his face and tame him with a touch. He knew exactly what words to say, but he also knew when to let go for Jim to lead. They were a partnership, no one completely dominant over the other. Jim misses that touch, aches for those words and Spock's presence beside him. Sulu and Uhura don't stand a chance.

He's got nothing to lose, but given what he actually feels like doing, Jim exercises a remarkable amount of self restraint. The voice he hears in his head that tells him flying through a supernova is a distinctly bad idea isn't his, though rationally who else could it be. You betrayed me, Jim argues, but all he gets in response to that is a raised eyebrow. Then Spock tells him that a better way to approach this scientific conundrum of gathering data on the collapsing star system is to do this this that and Jim doesn't actually know all the technical terms, but Spock does. He gets a few details wrong during the meeting with the scientists, but they're all looking at him as though he's a genius. Spock's a genius. Spock betrayed him, but Jim still trusts this constructed Spock in his head more than anyone else.

"Why are you mourning Spock's death, Jim? Is it because you miss what he was to you, or because you actually miss him, the person."

"What kind of question is that? He was everything to me."

"Do you miss _him_ or part of yourself?"

"Both. We were bonded. He was part of me."

"Never mind. You were talking about the supernova mission?"

On shifts when he's a little more lucid and Spock's simultaneous presence and absence on the ship doesn't send his heart spinning in hurt circles, he finds that he can manage a smile when someone mentions Spock's name. Afterwards there's a twinge that sometimes explodes into a world of suffocation and heartstopping pain, sometimes stays a twinge and nothing else. One time, he stopped to wonder why the Spock in his head never says anything about how he doesn't want Jim to keep suffering and he should move on. Two possibilities occur to him. One is that he can't imagine Spock ever saying anything like that in real life. Two is that Jim's using Spock because it's not actually Spock he misses, but who he was to Jim.

Both possibilities leave him in his quarters, chest heaving, hand on his heart, feeling absolutely angry and impotent all around.

Jim punches the wall, breaks his hand again, and stares. He has no idea why tears are streaming down his cheeks.


	4. First Summer, 4

The thing he misses most about Spock is his smell. Jim never paid much attention to it, but he finds himself in Spock's quarters inhaling deeply, trying to recapture Spock's scent. There's nothing of it left in the room. The ventilation systems haven't stopped since Spock's death. They keep sucking out the old air and blowing in the new. It's not even arid dry hot in Spock's quarters. Someone made the decision to turn off environmental controls and just let things run on minimal energy. Maybe Spock would appreciate that logic. Dead people don't need environmental controls.

The bed has nothing of Spock's odor on it. He rarely used the bed, since Vulcans hardly ever sleep. Jim approaches Spock's closet and drawers, which to his knowledge, no one has touched. He's seen the insides before. For some reason, this is different.

Jim opens the drawers carefully. Folded neatly inside are Spock's uniform shirts, pants, undershirts, underpants, socks. Jim fingers the blue material of the science uniform. He carefully pulls it out, the folds coming undone as he lifts it to his nose.

Nothing.

These were all washed dried pressed folded by the yeomen. It smells like standard Starfleet detergent. His hands shake as he refolds the shirt and carefully tucks it back into the drawer. Jim's fingers reach for the underpants, then draw back. Then he takes one at random, remembering missions gone wrong when he undressed Spock in the darkness of a cavern, times after missions when Spock shoved him against the wall of his quarters and kissed him, tore off his pants and stripped down to his underwear, times during diplomatic missions when Jim could do nothing but think about peeling off that dress uniform, that one time Jim seriously thought that Spock went commando. He inhales into the cloth, wanting to catch the scent of semen and skin and sex but there's nothing.

His chest feels so hollow.

The drawer below that is empty. It used to hold Spock's Vulcan robes, but they put his body in that for all three funerals, delivered him back to his home planet wrapped in the clothes that marked him as Vulcan's own. Jim inhales and there's a faint whiff of the scent of the thick cloth that used to lie here, but it's not Spock. Still, he'll take what he can get.

The last drawer has a few articles of clothing. Jim's Starfleet sweatshirt—he'd forgotten about that. Technically, he wondered where it disappeared, then decided he didn't really care. Jim picks it up carefully, but it smells like him, not Spock. Suddenly the thought slams into him that Spock did, at one point in time, exactly the same thing that Jim's doing right now. He can name right now one of the fifty thousand times he's been at death's door, or missing in space for so many shifts, and what must've it been like for Spock? The thing reeks of sweat. Jim used to wear it when he worked out. But that's exactly what he wants from Spock, to be overwhelmed by his scent, to find some way to remember and bring his lover back to life, if only for a moment.

There's a piece of cloth, like a veil. It looks like something a woman would wear. Jim smells it and that's definitely not Spock, though some deep part of him identifies it as Vulcan. Jealousy leaps to the forefront, then leaves as quickly as it came. Amanda Grayson. Something inside Jim breaks as he puts the veil scarf thing back. He closes the drawer and steps back, shaken.

There's nothing in Spock's closet except the dress uniform, a coat, and his boots. Jim takes out the uniform. He hugs the cloth to him, imagining that it's full of a body. Spock. His eye picks out details he never noticed before. There's a repair near the collar—that time when an ambassador's bodyguard turned out to be an assassin and Spock decided to play the hero and get hit instead. A tiny scuff mark at the elbow. From their last diplomatic mission together, somehow Spock's uniform got caught on a table corner. The yeoman must've missed the spot. The decorations denoting rank, commendations, honors. Jim inhales deeply, but again, nothing. He thinks vaguely that Starfleet's perfected the art of dry cleaning, to suck out someone's essence that completely. They should consider opening dry cleaning branches around the Alpha Quadrant.

It's the boots that finally get to him. Battered, creased, completely broken in, the boots were never cleaned and Jim thinks that despite the black, he can still see some bloodstains on them. And they smell.

Jim and Spock, every member of the _Enterprise_, go through pairs upon pairs of boots. Jim hates breaking in new boots each time his old ones are far gone and completely mucked up. It looks like Spock was about due for some new boots, but then he died. These escaped the Starfleet cleaning machine. They smell.

On the outside, they smell of mud and dirt and sand, they smell of the _Enterprise_'s waxed corridors. Blood, boot polish, rubber. Inside, they smell of Spock's feet. It's not like human sweat, and Jim has no way to describe it except that it brings to mind a lazy morning when he woke up and out of pure impulse, took Spock's long and lean foot in his hands and licked and sucked from heel to toe. Spock moaned in response because apparently, Vulcan feet have some very little telepathic capability, though not to the extent of their hands. It's another fun erogenous zone and after that Jim made full use of it, teasing Spock about having an Achilles heel. Foot massages were never the same again.

Jim fingers the laces, then clenches his fist. All the little pieces of Spock and memories he's not ready to deal with crowd him. His heart clinches with panic and he can feel his chest heaving with gasping inhales.

He has what he wants. If he stays in Spock's quarters any longer, he'll go crazy. Jim grabs the boots, stuffs the underwear in his pocket, and leaves. He locks the bulkheads with Spock's private code.

When he gets back to his quarters, he's exhausted. Jim falls asleep with the boots on the floor beside his bed, underpants wrapped around his fingers. And for the first time in so many weeks, his heart beats steadily through the night.


	5. First Summer, 5

tha-thump

"We'll be guarding this sector along the Neutral Zone here. The radius isn't too bad, but this star system," he points to the screen "emits some kind of radiation that makes it a perfect blind spot for some of our sensors."

tha-thump

"Does the Science Department have a solution for that, Mr. Chekov?"

"_Da_. We haf been rigging apparatus that is needing to be installed before we are warping out to the objective. Mr. Scott is helping, and we haf gathered a team of four engineers and two scientists for ship mission."

tha-thump

"Excellent. Commander Sulu, do you have any other remarks?"

"We received intel," he nods to Commander Uhura "that Klingon birds were detected at heading 17 mark 420. Two military vessels, small, probably on recon. How deep they stepped out of the Neutral Zone is unknown, but I just got off a transmission with the captains of the _Beijing_ for possible plans to coordinate attacks."

tha-thump

"Right. But we've all got to remember that we're taking orders from the admiral here. It'll be his call what we should do, if this turns out to be an all out battle."

"Understood, sir."

tha-thump

"Bones? Have anything to say?"

"Nope. Everyone knows the drill. Were the packs distributed?"

"Yeah. The emergency kits were taken care of."

"Then I've got nothing else to say."

tha-thump

Uhura's standing there. She gives him a look. She's ready to go, he can see it in her eyes.

It should be Spock standing there.

tha-thump-thump

Focus, Kirk. Can't afford any fuck ups.

tha-thump

"Dismissed. Lt. Espera, warp factor four. We've got ETA in seven hours. Get something to eat and a few hours of shut-eye. I want everyone to be at 100% when we get there."

They all know the drill. They all know that it's anyone's guess when the attack will come, and how long this patrol will last. They know how tiring it gets.

Jim could always count on Spock to be alert and completely awake. Being Vulcan and all.

tha-thump

"Get T'Karren up here on communications."

Bones gives him a look. Uhura follows his orders out without question. She knows why he always wants a Vulcan on the bridge in these situations. She also knows the reasons are purely tactical, not personal.

tha-thump

For three hours, Jim goes over the spatial maps over and over until he's confident he can navigate using only the relative positions of nearby stars. He knows where there might be trace of ion clouds, knows the names of each system in their immediate radius. Jim reviews a couple of military maneuvers he thinks might come in handy.

Then it's off to the gym for an hour of work out. Then check on ship status again. Then force himself to eat a nutritional meal. Then catch two hours of sleep. Then it's back on the bridge.

tha-thump

He has a brief conference with Pike. Jim's utterly relaxed. He briefly thinks back to his first years as captain and the adrenaline that would flood his veins, the sense of barely controlled panic.

It's different now.

tha-thump

"Ready, captain?"

"Everything's fully operational and loaded sir, just waiting for your command."

"Good. The _Nadezhda_ thought it spotted something, it turned out to be a pile of space debris just floating through. Trashed satellites, the like. Keep your eyes peeled."

"Of course, sir."

tha-thump

Hour one. Uhura reports for duty. Chekov's got navigational controls, Lt. Bucole is at the helm. Patrols proceed without incident. Ship systems detect nothing.

tha-thump

Hour two. Uhura, Chekov, Bucole still on duty. Weapons team reports minor malfunction, easily fixed. A replacement ensign, in his nervousness, spills hot coffee all over himself. Sickbay reports minor burns. He'll be fine. Ship systems detect nothing.

tha-thump

Hour three. Uhura, Chekov, Bucole on duty. Their second pass over their designated sector. Brief transmission with the _Beijing_ reveals no activity on their end either. Everything is silent. Ship status checks out.

tha-thump

Hour four. Lt. Nalaq-Proraidi relieves Lt. Rifkin at the Science console. No word from Pike. T'Karren mentions that other sectors have come under attack by the Klingons. Ship systems detect nothing.

tha-thump

Hour five. Received communication from Pike that Sectors Three, Four, and Six were attacked, heavy casualties sustained in Sector Four, but they held their position. Ensign Gregoria comments that she wishes they got a piece of the action. The captain raises his eyebrow and looks uncannily Vulcan.

tha-thump

Hour five point four two. Something on the screens.

tha-thump

Hour five point four seven. False alarm.

tha-thump

Hour six. Scotty, as he is wont to do when they're on patrol and he get bored, joins them on the bridge. Nothing on ship's sensors.

tha-thump

"Captain?"

tha-thump-thump

And here they go.

Thump

"Two unidentified ships, appearing on screen"

"T'Karren, initiate standard protocol."

"Aye sir"

Thump thump thump thump

"Fired four shots triangulating position of a third ship"

"This is the starship _Enterprise_, identify yourselves. I repeat—"

"Seems they've been scoping our position"

"Put it up on the screen"

"They are 68 mark 4 sir"

"Phasers on my command"

"Sensors picking up positive identification"

"Admiral Pike on the line, sir"

"Contact the _Beijing_ on another line"

Thump

"Who the fuck fired?"

"Jumpy lieutenant, sir"

"Replace him"

"Admiral Pike on the line, sir"

"Confirmed Klingon ships"

"Photon torpedoes if we have to"

"Put the admiral up on audio"

"Kirk, what's your status"

"Shields took a hit, sir, they've locked onto us"

"Bucole maintain evasive maneuvers"

"We've come under attack by three birds, sir, two of them came out of the blue and the third just appeared on our screens"

"How are you holding up?"

"Target engaged and we are go sir"

"Fire at will"

thump thump thump thump thump

"Fine sir no casualties reported, shields are fine. We'll managed."

"Be ready to pull back at any moment. The _Beijing_'s in deep."

"Understood"

"Shields holding steady sir"

"Reloading phaser banks, sir"

"Pike out"

"Commander, how's status in Sickbay"

"No casualties, four wounded, sir"

thump thump

"Bucole, be ready at any moment to warp out to Sector Nine"

"Aye sir"

"Chekov are you"

"I am already calculating, keptan"

"Scotty how's engine status"

"Fine. Should give you warp eight without a problem"

"Remain on standby"

"Got it, captain"

"Uhura, enemy status"

"Confirmed seven hits on two ships, estimated damage, critical"

"They seem to be withdrawing"

"Enemy shields compromised"

"Phasers, hit them with all you've got"

"Yes sir!"

thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump

The phasers mixed with heartbeats and heartbeats mixed with hits and after the battle counted the wounded (none killed, thankfully) and the thump of clapping hands as Jim's awarded some other medal for doing his job (pin a bow to his chest and they think it does anything for him?) and living another day without Spock but with his crew, without Spock, but with his crew.

tha-thump

Heart never gave out.

tha-thump

Put his hand to his chest and feel it beating, beating, keeping pulse with the ship. Inhale.

Uhura smiles, Chekov laughs, Sulu rolls his eyes for missing the first half of the battle, Bones grumbles and hypos a helpless lieutenant, Chapel grins, Scotty raises a glass to toast. Jim inhales. Pike salutes him. This isn't the first battle he's gone through without Spock. It sure as hell won't be the last.

tha-thump

Heart never gave out, but he still misses Spock. Chest tightens.

tha-thump


	6. First Summer, 6

Sometimes Jim wonders what it would be like to die.

He's not suicidal. That's not his style. And even when the grief is at its worst, Jim never considers killing himself. He grits his teeth and bears it. It's how he's gotten this far in the first place. Sometimes he wonders if this is what existence was like before Spock changed everything. The only difference between now and then is that now, he knows what he's missing.

Jim wonders idly about death because he's seen it in so many forms. He's buried crewmembers, there was that whole watching a planet and its inhabitants get sucked into a singularity thing. Massacre on Tarsus. Spock. Though technically, he didn't get to see Spock die. He was already dead when Jim found him.

He's seen near misses. Almost all the crewmembers have had their brushes with death—none more so than Jim. Spock had his own fair share of near misses too. Every time, they both made it back to the side of the living so that Jim basically assumed that it would always be that way. Or if anyone would die, it would be him. It had to be. It was inconceivable that things could turn out any other way.

Here he was living that impossibility. Spock dead. Jim alive. On the _Enterprise_. The crew at his back. The universe at his feet.

Spock should be at his side. They promised each other, made vows never to leave. Spock should be at his side.

The arbitrary random senseless pointless –ness of it all was what got to Jim, the first time he presided over the funeral as a captain. Gary Mitchell and Elizabeth Dehner, for example. So much promise, so much ability and potential in their lives, burned up for what? Because they happened to have high esper ratings and the _Enterprise_ happened to get a mission to investigate the edge of the galaxy. It could have turned out so differently. His father could have been assigned to the _Potemkin_ and lived, instead of going kamikaze on the _Kelvin_. They could have chosen another colony, instead of Tarsus. So many permutations—he wonders if Spock did this after Vulcan was destroyed. If and if and if. Yesterday and yesterday and yesterday.

It's pointless to play that game. Jim's got other things to worry about, instead of constantly looking back and slowly turning into a pillar of salt.

But Spock.

Oh, Spock.

There is no reason—Jim has long known and accepted that death has no reason or warning. But he is human. He cannot help but search for a reason, try and find some logic that might ease the pain of that passing. If he could know that Spock's death, their sacrifice, had meaning. If he could be assured that Spock was waiting for him on the other side. If he could just hear one last time that voice, telling him of ten thousand things they never got to say. Please, if he could just have a minute to kiss him and say goodbye. Please.

The only answer he receives is silence, long and cold and empty like space.

That loss leaves him speechless. It tears a hole in his heart, the silence the roar the thunder the emptiness makes his whole body ache. And he cries. There is no point, it alleviates nothing, but Jim is human and he must mourn, else he really will turn into a pillar of salt. Jim cries in his quarters, teeth biting his knuckles, heart banging against his ribcage. Sometimes the pressure in his chest is too much to hold in and he yells. Chokes. Moans. Moans the sounds that take him back to another time when they were two and they shared a bed a bond and the only crying Jim did was when Spock made him come deliciously, the only fluid between them were never tears.

Grief. Sex. Leave him speechless and exhausted. It's all Jim can do to wake up at the alarm, take a sonic shower, report to the bridge. There were mornings when Spock got that look on his face that said Jim wasn't going anywhere. It was private joke between them that people always assumed that Jim was the one that made them late. No one would've believed that it was quite the opposite.

Why is it that he's constantly thinking about sex? Is that only thing he misses about Spock, a warm body in his bed?

It's not surprising that his mind would focus on the sexual aspect of their relationship.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

It prevents him from thinking about the more intimate memories. This is a form of damage control. After such a long period of suppression, the brute force of the emotions must be released before the real grief sets in.

Jim thinks what he's been feeling so far is pretty real.

Correction. It is indeed real, but it is raw.

He can't believe he's having conversations with himself in his head. With a constructed Spock. With himself. It's a mess.

It is necessary, the voice chides.

Shut up.

As you wish.

Even with a constructed Spock, it feels like he can never win an argument.


	7. First Summer, 7

"Give us your ship, and we will give you what you long for most."

There's a trap in that statement somewhere, Jim's instincts are screaming at him to leave these aliens and get the fuck out.

His heart is like a lead weight. It keeps him firmly in place.

"Surely it would be an equitable trade. Your ship for your First Officer."

This whole grief thing? It's turning him into an old man. Suddenly he knows why people want to live forever or raise the dead or believe in an afterlife. Because the alternative hurts too damn much. He hasn't accepted the possibility that Spock's just gone. Disappeared. That they'll never see each other again. He doesn't think he'll ever accept it.

"Imagine, the two of your reunited. We can give you what you long for, what you yearn for. Just give us your ship."

He can almost understand Nero, and whatever that idiot must've felt losing his wife and unborn child. Almost.

"Don't do it, Jim."

"She doesn't know what it feels like captain, to live with this unbreachable gap in your life."

"And you do?" Uhura retorts. "Captain, let's go."

"We have the technology to bring him back to life! Exactly as he was—you've seen our facilities, you know what we can do."

"I know."

"Then take it. Take this opportunity to be happy again. Give us your ship, that is all we ask as payment. Your ship, and you will be free of this sorrow that hunts you."

Is that really what he wants? Would he really be happy again, would all these feelings just go away if Spock came back, as though he never left? But he did leave. That's the point. He died. He's dead. Jim was there, he saw the three funerals.

"Jim, don't. They can't give him back to you. Even if they gave you a perfect replica, you know it wouldn't be him."

"We've found a way to break the memory barrier. Spock would remember everything perfectly, even his death. You would never be able to tell the difference. They would be the same person."

His heart is hammering.

Spock is dead.

"Leave the dead in peace," she hisses. "Would he want this, captain? Look at me and tell me he'd want this exchange."

"He'd want to live."

"But at what cost? At what cost to you and to us?"

Captain, decision maker extraordinaire, famed throughout the galaxy for knowing what to do and say at exactly the right time. Those skills desert him and his mouth is dry and Jim doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to do.

"Don't do it, Jim."

But I want to. I want to so bad, I want to see him so bad, I want another chance and time and place and skin and feet and hands and lips I want him back I want him alive and next to me, breathing and heart beating in his chest. I want this oh god I want this my heart is breaking again I want this so bad oh god oh god I want this.

Nyota can read him. She hugs him fiercely and whispers in his ear.

"I miss him. We all miss him. But before you say anything, think about this—if you bring him back to life, are you doing it for him or for yourself? And if you can look me straight in the eye and tell me you're doing this for Spock, then I don't know what to tell you. But otherwise, no. I'll declare you compromised and take command, lock you in the brig and throw away the key until we're lightyears from this planet. Do you understand me?

"Two summers. Think about this possibility after two summers, and then you tell me what your decision is."

Can't wait that long I want this so bad heart breaking miss him so much want him so much tired of living without him love him want him please return to me come back to me Spock Spock don't leave don't die Spock.

"Beam us up," he manages to croak into his communicator and immediately regrets it when he's back on the transporter pad, throwing up everything and more.

Nyota makes some sharp orders the same way Spock would and Sulu warps them out and Jim's left with his mind whirling with hypotheticals what ifs the vision of Spock and his groin aching and his heart shattering into tiny pieces again.

Scotty helps him up off the pad and escorts him to Sickbay. The man doesn't really say anything, not even a comment about the mess Jim left back in the transporter room. He suddenly feels so cold and realizes that he's breaking out into a cold sweat as the possibility of Spock alive and beside him, supporting him and taking him down to Sickbay instead of Scotty doing the same thing grips him and Jim almost collapses against a wall. But Scotty catches him before he crashes, just like Spock would've and it's Scotty's strength he leans on not Spock's as Bones directs them to a biobed.

Nyota takes his hand. Bones is demanding an explanation.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I'm sorry you had to make that decision."

He wants to retort that he didn't make a decision, just flipped open his communicator and had them beam up. His mouth is sticky with the taste of vomit and briefly he considers that he's going crazy because instead of Nyota's dark brown eyes looking down at him he sees Spock's, the same gentle approval and support shining through.

"You did the right thing, Jim. I promise we'll get through this."

Bones is still demanding an explanation. Nyota squeezes his hand then turns to the doctor. The words wash over him. Chapel comes to his side and checks up on his signals.

She's listening to Nyota's account and something floods her eyes as she looks as Jim. He can't define it, it's like a reflection and pure understanding of everything he's going through. Then he remembers—Dr. Roger Korby.

Christine says absolutely nothing except to take his hand, but he reaches up and grabs her instead. She returns the embrace. Like in the Observation Deck an eternity ago, Jim finds himself sobbing all over her blue uniform, clinging to her as if she holds out a promise. He has no idea what that promise is, but it's more than what he has now and he misses Spock so much he misses the intimacy and love and the way that Spock understood him completely the way they were themselves and more than themselves. In Christine's grey eyes he finds understanding of a different sort, but he needs it god how he needs it when there's nothing inside him but this desolate emptiness that used to be filled with Spock but Spock's dead and they held out the possibility that he could be brought back to life, the same, unchanged, the real thing.

What must it have been like for her, after she found out that Korby wasn't real? And they promised a perfect replica of Spock, but what if it turned out he wasn't?

"Two summers," she whispers. "It took me two summers when they declared Roger dead."

In his peripheral vision, he's aware that Scotty, Bones, Chekov, Sulu, and Uhura are gathered around his biobed. They don't really say or do anything. It reminds him how much Spock isn't there and he tightens his arms around Christine, trying to believe her promise and the unspoken promise that the crew offer him.

Spock was always the one to stand by him. Spock is dead.

He doesn't think he can last two summers.


	8. First Summer, 8

He regrets burying Spock on Vulcan II.

No, that's not true. That's where Spock belongs, where Spock would've wanted to be buried. They never talked about it, but Jim knows.

He regrets that he can't visit Spock's grave.

He doesn't know where this impulse comes from, but it seems to be something ancient and intimately human. There are days when the only thing he wants to do is redirect his ship to Vulcan II, beam down to that arid hot burning planet, walk its sands to where Spock rests. He imagines himself kneeling before rock and stone like a supplicant, whispering and screaming into the desert wind. He imagines the wind carrying his words to Spock's katra, or the wind bringing him secret memories of his lover, or the wind wiping away his tears, replacing them with kisses from Spock. It's not logical, but he wants to believe that the wind can convey messages to the dead, that the dead linger in some unknown unseeable world of their own, and it is the air that Jim breathes it is the breeze that touches his face that can travel between those two realms.

There is a wind in space. Jim likes to think of light as its own kind of wind, racing through the void in every direction. He wonders if Spock is in that light, if he is laughing because he's with the stars now.

These are old Earth beliefs, wives tales, crockpot stories used in a time when people didn't have the marvels of science and technology to explain to them the way things really work. Yet despite the fact that they're absolutely ridiculous and untrue, they've survived. Those tales of an afterlife and this unfounded belief in a human soul a Vulcan katra have lived on, even though there's never been anything to solidly back it up. People cling to them in secret.

Jim used to laugh at the legend and myths humans would come up with. They have some weird stuff. Now, he remembers them, wondering. Hoping. He reminds himself there is no evidence, that scientists have tried a million different ways and it's inconclusive at best, contradictory at worst. But something in him has to believe that Spock is still out there. It fucking hurts too much to think otherwise.

He always assumed the funerals he held as a starship captain would be a remembrance, if not a celebration, of the deceased's life. It'd be one of those "put the keg on my coffin" affairs that dwelt on all of life's good parts and didn't allow sorrow a place in the room. Who the fuck cares about what happens afterwards? So-and-so lived a good life, and that's all we can ask for.

It's different somehow, on a starship. Because so-and-so did live a good life, but that life was cut short. Death came suddenly, randomly, swiftly, slowly, deliberately. They all knew the dangers and risks signing up with Starfleet, serving under James T. Kirk. That knowledge doesn't ease anything, doesn't take away the sting of unfairness and the gnawing questions.

They've done the "keg on the coffin" thing. Some people explicitly request it in their files. Jim thought that's how he'd like to go. But it's different. The perspective between being the one to go and the one left behind are completely different.

And somewhere in there, holding all those funeral services for the crewmembers that died, he realizes that there is nothing shameful in sadness. He thought that mourning was useless because it does nothing for the dead. But it is necessary for the living. Joy that a life ended, that a friend passed, is only possible if you believe that they've gone onto a better place, that they are in Elysium, that they are somehow at rest or returned to the source of all things or rejoined the cycle of life. The idea of simple nonexistence is brutal. It might be supported by all scientific investigation, it might be easy to accept when death is abstract and the people dying are not your friends. Otherwise, something inside recoils at the thought.

Jim wonders what Spock would have to say to that. Would he go into how humans are hardwired, talk about their evolutionary history, bring up articles on anthropology and discuss the different ways that alien cultures deal with death? Would he start talking about funerary rituals and prepare a report for Jim to read just because he can, and Jim asked? He misses the intense intellectual curiosity of Spock and the way the Vulcan thoroughly researched everything.

That's why he wants to go to Spock's grave. To ask him these questions and get answers he knows are true. He wants to ask Spock if he's there, if he's happy, if he's waiting for Jim. If the wind carries his spirit across the desert sands, if they will be joined on the other side.

He wants answers to questions that no one has been able to unravel. He wants to know that despite the fact that he is mortal and one day his heart will stop, that their love will outlast death and the slow decay of time. And he wants Spock to tell him.

This is what Jim imagines, kneeling in red sands before his lover's grave, his eyes turned to the sky searching for a sign, a confirmation.

But they are lightyears away from Vulcan II and not likely to go near that planet anytime soon.

Jim sits in his captain's chair, imagining a soft breeze touching his body like Spock's quiet breath against the nape of his neck.

In his mind, he hears Spock whisper _yes_.

It's all he can do not to reach out into the still air of the bridge, desperately trying to catch the wind.


	9. First Summer, 9

For the first time in Jim's life, he thinks he can understand his mother.

For the first time in Jim's life, he thinks he can forgive his mother for all her faults, all her shortcomings. She tried her best. It must've been hell.

He's seen the pictures of his father. There's a definite family resemblance there. Jim never thought it was enough for her to see George Kirk in his eyes, but now he understands. It's not just the image, but layers of memories and the brute force of shock and the trauma of having a child while you're listening to your husband die. He's never listened to that last conversation his mother had with his father, the one that gave him his name. He doesn't think that his mother ever listened to it again either.

Jim can't bear to listen to Spock's logs, the ones that he recorded when Jim was off getting himself endangered on some planet. He doesn't want the rush of memory, doesn't want the tightening in his groin listening to that deep, placid voice relating the relevant facts. If he did, he's be able to see Spock sitting in the captain's chair, brows furrowed, worry evident in the light in his eyes but never explicitly expressed.

His heart squeezes, almost skips a beat.

When his mother unexpectedly sends him a transmission, he opens it. It's been how long since Spock died? Jim doesn't care to count the days, the hours, every fucking creeping minute. Time kind of oozes along, melting everything together to yesterday today tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Without Spock.

His mother unexpectedly sends him a transmission and he opens it. She just looks straight into the camera, that look in her eyes that Jim grew up with, the look that Jim now sees reflected back in the mirror. That look in her eyes. Deep lines in her face—time has not been particularly kind to her. That look in her eyes and says "I'm sorry."

Jim keeps watching, expecting her, wanting her, needing her to say more. For just this once, please be a mother, for just this once make it all go away and tell me this is just a dream, a nightmare. For just this once, give me the words to make it all right.

Or say something to make me rage at you. Say something about how you understand, how you know what this heart stopping feeling is like, tell me that everything will be okay so I can scream yell curse that you don't fucking understand I can't fucking breathe so don't tell me that everything will be okay. Just please, say something. Say something.

But she says nothing else. It's the look, and the transmission ends.

He wants to curse her anyway, yell at her for being a terrible mother. Where was she when he was driving a car off a cliff, where was she when he was getting into scrapes at school, where was she when he was getting into bar fights? When he graduated Starfleet, when he got his captain's commission, when he was decorated for conspicuous gallantry. What did she see—the life of George Kirk playing out before her eyes? Is that why she was never on Earth, despite the fact that she remarried?

He wants to ask her these questions that have always been in the back of his mind, but he doesn't. Because for the first time in his life, he thinks he can understand his mother.

It's something he never would have predicted in a millions years. There's always been a gulf between him and her, connected by a rickety bridge. The gulf remains, but somehow they're more connected, and it's not by bridges. It's by something deeper, more fundamental, like the plate tectonics that make up Earth's meager crust.

Funny how Spock's death brings him closer to his mother.

His heart squeezes.

In the back of his mind, Jim vaguely wonders if he'll turn out like her, an eternal wanderer. She's made a name for herself in her own circles. She did the best she could by him and his brother. She moved on, carried her grief with her, kept living through the grey dusk. Jim wants to ask her how she did it. Somehow, he knows that all she'll do is turn those eyes to him. No words. Only looks.

It had been that way with Spock, sometimes. All the time. The connection between them was so strong that Spock only had to look at him and Jim knew what those dark eyes were saying. Even before the bond, they were like that. In his dreams, Jim keeps searching for those eyes that face the elegant angle of those eyebrows that will sooth away all fears and tell him without words that everything will be okay. That this is just a dream.

It's just a dream. It's just a fucking dream because every time, he wakes up with a hole in his heart and a hole in his head, gasping because Spock felt so real, despite the blurriness the mist and fog, despite the fact that in these nighttime encounters he is incorporeal and translucent. It feels real because Jim wants it to be real, Jim wants Spock to be alive. It's just a dream.

Did his mother feel this? Yeah. Those eyes tell him everything. His mother's eyes tell him everything of the long years and the grief and sorrow and the gaping place that she, even today, carries in her heart.

"I'm sorry."

And he understands what she's sorry for. For so many things. She's sorry for his loss. Jim's not even sure Spock and his mother have ever met. But she's his mother and despite the fact that she fell short in so many ways, she knows her little boy and knows, perhaps better than anyone, exactly what he's going through. She's sorry for all the times she ran away from her own memories, she's sorry that he understands what she's saying at all. No mother would ever want that for her child. Jim is strong—he's her son. But she's sorry all the same.

Jim realizes that maybe deep down, she's sorry that he's her son at all. Grief seems to hound them at every turn. His mother isn't superstitious, but they both know that their family history is littered with more stories exactly like this than should be allowed for a single bloodline. Or maybe she's sorry that he was born in space, as though she made a bargain with the void that if they lived, if she and her son survived those days in the shuttle, Jim would belong to space forever. Like a sacrifice to a greedy deity, she bought their lives by selling his future. Her future.

None of this makes any sense.

But he understands.

Jim doesn't think her apology heals all things. But something inside him settles, momentarily. His heart relaxes.

And in the darkness of his quarters, staring at the black screen of a terminal, he whispers.

"I forgive you."


	10. First Summer, 10

Heart clenches.

It's one of those days.

"No, I disagree," Nyota shakes her head. "The diplomatic situation is tight as it is. We shouldn't risk offending them by going against their requests."

"We can't afford to go into that kind of hostile territory without phasers. That's just asking for something to happen," Sulu argues right back.

"Nothing will get off the ground if we show them that we don't trust them. A measure of faith could go a long way, give us a better bargain—"

"I'm fine with the idea of getting a crappier deal. We're not going there unarmed."

"Do you really understand how delicate the situation is right now? One of your security guys violated a major cultural taboo—we're lucky that they didn't execute him."

"It was an accident. Accidents happen. I've already reprimanded him, given him an assignment to read up on the different funeral ceremonies of this sector. Don't hold that over his head, and don't use that as an excuse to just walk blindly into a trap."

"Your paranoia about these people is totally unwarranted. They were friendly up until that point, which is understandable because they thought we were deliberately insulting them and thumbing our nose at their culture—"

"I don't understand how every time something like this happens, we're automatically in the wrong—"

"We have a greater responsibility towards upholding a standard because we're representatives of the Federation, we're technologically more advanced than most of the civilizations we visit—"

"We don't actually need this planet for anything. We could go to any other planet for the same resources and not jump through these loops and bend over backwards to accommodate every single little thing about their culture—"

"So you're suggesting that we just go in and take what we want just because we can? Do it the Klingon way?"

"No, I'm saying that if the cultural demands are unreasonable and incompatible with our safety, then it's necessary to ignore them."

And on and on.

He and Spock used to fight like this. Now it's mostly Uhura and Sulu who butt heads. Jim will make the executive decision when this argument they've got going winds down but for now, he loses himself in the back and forth.

Heart clenches.

He watches and listens, suddenly jealous. No one challenges him like that anymore. There are some days when Uhura seems to channel Spock and for a few glorious minutes he's arguing again with a point of a view so totally different from his own. But where Spock never backed down and was so absolutely confident that he was right, Uhura's been a diplomat for too long to keep opposing Jim. She modifies her position, offers a compromise, resolves the conflict.

Spock—he enjoyed arguing with his captain just for the pure thrill of it. He enjoyed winning, forcing Jim to see his point of view and concede. It's like chess or sparring. In the heat of the argument, they were equally matched in every way, mirror images representing two fundamentally different sides of the universe. Combined, they created the infinite diversity of the universe.

Bones still needles him, but it's not the same. Bones argues with his heart, not with his head. He keeps Jim human, but the doctor's worldview boils down to this: life is sacred. Jim agrees, but there's only so much you can say when the other person's argument and trump card are one and the same. Spock has a whole arsenal of arguments. There were nuances and degrees, shades of grey. He could take Jim off guard, he could surprise him.

That's the thrill of the challenge.

And it's gone. He's not sure he'll ever find a mind like that again.

Heart clenches.

In these arguments that Sulu and Uhura have, Jim thinks he ends up going 50/50. Half the time he sides with one, other times it's the other. Spock would know better. He'd keep track, just like he kept track of their chess games. He'd probably tell Jim that there were a lot of times when Jim came up with a third option, like he's thinking of doing right now. A lot of their chess games ended in draws.

"You know that both of you are right," Jim interrupts. The argument has been going in circles now. "Your priorities are just different."

Sulu and Uhura look at each other. They've heard this speech from him before, so he skips it.

"Commander Uhura, how likely do you think it is that they'll search us for weapons?"

Uhura narrows her eyes. She can guess where this is going.

"That's not the point, captain. The point is that we should be open and honest with them and carrying concealed weapons violates that trust."

"That's the point of concealed weapons. They'll never know we violated that trust in the first place."

"It's an unfair disadvantage—"

"And we'll be at an even bigger disadvantage going into this unarmed. Commander Sulu is right—it was an honest accident and I don't think we should be penalized that severely for it, especially given the instability of the region. So I'm asking you again, how likely do you think it is that they'll search us?"

"They'll search us, but not full body. Maybe do some sort of scan with a metal detector."

"Metal detector. So any concealed weapon would be a moot point anyway."

"Not if we assert our right to have them on us," Sulu replied.

"You want to force their hand?"

"I want to force the issue."

"Not a good idea. They won't have any reason to believe that we're peaceful and actually want normal diplomatic relations with them. But there's more than one way to arm ourselves. Sulu, tell Giotto that I want a team of security officers especially proficient in hand-to-hand, and maybe a few security people set up around the perimeter of the building, undercover. Uhura, outfit everyone with communicator badges and notify the transporter room that they're to monitor our positions at all times, in case we need an emergency beam up."

"Aye sir."

"Understood, captain."

"Anything else we need to discuss?"

"I don't think so. The terms of the treaty that Starfleet wants are pretty clear."

"Think you can manage it, commander."

"I think _you'll_ manage it, captain. You defused the situation with the security officer, after all."

If Spock were here, he'd have handled with much more skill and finesse. Spock always knew exactly what to say and how to say it.

Heart clenches.

"Just did what needed to be done. We'll be fine."

Uhura and Sulu stand before him, waiting.

He doesn't know what to make of the fact that it takes two people to fill Spock's place as his First Officer, and that neither of them can ever fill it completely. Jim's getting used to them, but it's like a shoe that fits all wrong.

"Dismissed."

They leave.

Spock always stayed.


	11. First Summer, 11

Jim discovers that grief is not all sadness. That he has the ability to smile and laugh. It makes him feel kind of twisted up inside, as though happiness itself is a kind of desecration to Spock's memory. Spock would probably scoff at the idea, but Jim still feels pangs of guilt that he's not mourning all the time.

He still feels Spock's absence keenly. But it seems that humans aren't made to be sad constantly. Shouldn't they, though? If he loves Spock, if he lost Spock, shouldn't he just be unable to function at all?

It's a kind of demented logic, one that Bones is familiar with. Jim knows that his best friend is watching him closely, ready to with a hypospray should he show the slightest sign of shattering. Jim finds it annoying, just has he finds himself smiling at a joke that Bones makes. He doesn't know what to make of the fact that he can smile. The past few months, Jim feels like he's been alternating between numbness and a pit of sorrow.

When Spock was suppressing his emotions, is this what it felt like? When he was exploring his human side, was it something like this—an uncertainty that the emotion was even allowed to exist? If their places had been reversed, Jim would tell Spock, assuming that Jim could reach Spock from beyond the grave, that it's ridiculous he feels guilty about something as simple as smiling. Go for it. Do what you want. I won't hold you back.

Spock probably wouldn't say it that way, but the general idea is similar. It'd be more along the lines of 'living according to the purely speculated will and desire of a deceased individual is illogical.'

He gets confused sometimes. He wishes he had an eidetic memory, because he isn't sure if his "Spock would" thoughts are actually based on Spock, or if he's just projecting in some sort of demented psychological loop. It gets probably gets philosophical from there, but Jim's just tangled up in emotion. This isn't who he is. He wants a way out.

Then again, grief isn't who he is either. Bones used to think that Jim was made of Teflon, the way he just bounced back from trauma after trauma after trauma. He doesn't like to deal too deeply with grief or other heavy emotions. He's developed his own ways of coping with the stresses and for the most part, they've worked out pretty well for him. Bones had scores of complaints, but Starfleet didn't so Jim could just keep going as he always had.

Spock forced his hand.

Now he finds himself struggling to make sense of everything he feels, the contradictory things that rise and fall in his heart, the way that his grief seems to shift and change.

He's changed.

Spock was always changing him. Forcing him to reconsider his plans as captain, pushing him to become a better leader, supporting him with his immovable loyalty, extending an offer of friendship, opening him wide open with depth of his love. There is no part of Jim that Spock has not touched and changed in some way. It wasn't that Spock told him what to do or that he was flawed or that he couldn't be more screwed up. Well, sometimes it was. But Spock never took Jim aside and said, as his brother did once and Bones did multiple times, that something was wrong or broken and Jim needed to see to it before he went off like a time bomb and destroyed the universe.

Spock just was. By his very presence, he transformed Jim in ways that he could never have guessed.

And now it seems that even in death, Spock is changing him. By his absence, he's transforming Jim and Jim's not sure where the hell this is going. Is it like a car off a cliff? Because that's what it feels like.

Spock's always changing him, and reflecting on it a little, he finds that the change was usually for the better. Is it because he wanted to be a better person for Spock? Or Spock just naturally brings out the goodness in him? Or are the changes really more independent of Spock, who was a catalyst, the man who tipped the first domino?

This grief thing's changing him, and he's not sure he likes it. He's turning into an old man. He's more quiet and serious, he's not so much fun. He hesitates sometimes at taking risks. Jim Kirk never turns down the opportunity for some extra adrenaline. He's made his name and reputation off it. It's who he is. He resents Spock for taking his invincibility away from him.

Granted, objectively speaking he still takes way more chances than your typical Starfleet captain, or any officer. But the point still stands.

This isn't him, this person who's unsure whether it's okay to laugh after your lover has died. Fuck it, he's always made his own rules and broken them too. If he wants to laugh, he'll laugh. If he wants to smile, he'll do it because he's alive and not even Spock could keep him from doing something he wanted when he had his heart set on it. Why should that change just because Spock's dead?

Spock forced his hand and the bastard didn't even have the balls to stick around to see Jim's cards.

Because James T. Kirk cheats. He bluffs and lies through every situation, he beat that stupid unbeatable test with it, he's saved their asses a dozen times over. It's in his blood, it's in his charm, it's in the way his blue eyes can blaze and look so fucking honest while he's actually just bullshitting everything.

It doesn't matter that Spock's always been able to call him on his bullshit.

Spock's dead.

And as the truth of that statement hits him again, slicing through the ten thousand ways he's always been able to lie to himself, he manages a wry smile.

Spock always was a vicious winner.


	12. First Summer, 12

"I miss you," he whispers into Spock's room.

Jim lies on the bed, on top of the covers. His eyes are open in the darkness.

He has no idea why he's talking to the dead. It's not like Spock can hear him.

"It's your birthday today. Happy birthday."

Silence.

"Nyota cried. Black tears from her makeup. Smeared it all over Scotty's shirt."

It was a small remembrance, impromptu. No one planned it, but the date was hanging over them all. They sort of spontaneously gathered in an empty conference room. Jim had been working on a report when Bones poked his head in, then Chris joined, and it snowballed from there. Scotty brought drinks.

"Bones made a toast to you. Said something about how you were the most infuriating person he ever knew and how human you were, deep down inside. You'd've been thoroughly insulted."

A small smile.

Not much had been said between them in that gathering.

"We all miss you. I think they're all still hurting. I don't know how to fix it."

He inhales, chest tightening.

"I don't know how to fix myself."

Time has passed, but not enough. It hasn't been two summers yet. He thinks that they've all got some individual concept of how two summers are measured, and they're all biding the time until it passes. Until they can feel healed. No one wants to forget, but remembering is so painful.

"Why did you have to leave me."

It's not a question. He knows that Spock didn't leave, that if he had the choice, he would still be there with Jim and the crew. As Bones often says, that doesn't change how it feels. Everything would just be so much easier if he could have Spock back, if he could go back in time and prevent whatever happened.

Nero was so insane in his grief that he decided to punch a hole in time and kill billions of people.

Sometimes Jim wonders if it's not love that's the most powerful thing in the universe, but heart-splitting sadness.

And there are days when he's tempted to pull a Nero, or something close to it. The only thing that prevents him from doing that is the memory of Spock himself. He would never want to be brought back to life at such a terrible cost.

"Always had a stupid noble streak in you."

Is it ironic that Spock didn't die heroically or nobly, defending Jim or sacrificing himself? That's how Starfleet spun it, but as far as Jim can tell, it was just Spock's head split open like an egg.

For some reason it was especially horrific to Jim that it was Spock's brain that got shot. That's where his brilliant mind was, the center of his awesome intelligence, the thing that defined him in so many ways. They just blew it out and left it in pieces on the floor.

He doesn't want to remember this. He doesn't have the energy or resolve to deal with this right now. The crew needs him, the _Enterprise_ needs him, they're going on another mission. So much is on his shoulders and he can't afford to do this.

That doesn't prevent tears from leaking out of this eyes and snot starts dribbling out of his nose. It's disgusting.

Jim punches into the bed, a wave of grief hitting him like a cement wall.

"Fuck."

His gut tightens, his heart feels weak, his breathing is labored, his muscles tense, his hand curl until he's fisting the covers and if he had Vulcan strength, he'd have ripped them apart by now.

His shoulders shake and he feels his heart beginning to panic, the pain blossoming in his chest. Jim grabs at his chest, catching the cloth of his shirt and the skin stretched over, simultaneously pressing against the bone and clawing into his skin. He tries to catch a hold of his breathing and calm himself, eyes shut tight.

Memories hover in the sidelines, a thousand private things that should be sweet now turned bitter by the taint of death. He's not ready to deal with them, not ready because he's still struggling to come to terms with the fact that Spock is not there and will probably never walk at Jim's side again.

"Spock," he whispers. "Spock."

There's an edge of desperation to his voice, a neediness. This is something he'll never show to anyone else, even in grief the only person he will allow to come near is Spock because Spock was his world, his love, his life, the very breath of his lungs and the beat of his heart. Spock saw him and understood and loved him like no one ever could, and no one will ever come close to that nearness.

He did not lose a world or life or love when he lost Spock. The _Enterprise_ is still flying. He's alive, a fact that puzzles him but one that he accepts. There's no doubt that his crew love him, in their own ways. Even his mother, in her own way.

What he lost with Spock are all the extras. All the extra, unnecessary things about life that you don't need for surviving from one day to the next. He lost the ability to stand in awe before a volcano erupting, the reverent feeling he used to get looking out at the stars and galaxies set against the blackness of space. His stomach curls at the smell of plomeek soup—he can't touch the stuff anymore. He lost the glimmer in Spock's eyes, the pale green of Spock's fingers. He lost the silly smile he couldn't keep off his face when they first started dating.

He lost Spock's world, that gift that was extra. In the back of his mind is a torn bond, one that used to spark and fizz from the rapidity and intensity of their communication, one that allowed Jim to feel Spock's amazement as Spock observed a culture of xeno-amoeba or considered a group of thorny fluorescent flowers or programmed an elegant new protocol into the ship's computers.

Jim can't help but count all the things he's lost and finds himself wondering what it must have been like for Spock, to actually lose his entire world, his people, his mother, Vulcan culture science history technology sucked into a black hole.

"I was an asshole."

He's apologized to Spock before for compromising him like that. Spock never held it against him, but he now he thinks Spock knew Jim didn't—couldn't—understand what it was like.

"I'm so sorry."

He's amazed, grateful, humble, that Spock was willing to give him a second chance at all. Jim wouldn't've, had their positions been reversed. Spock gave up more than he could comprehend to be his First Officer.

That just drives home with crushing intensity how much he's lost. How much the universe lost, when Spock died.

"I love you."

Words they rarely said to each other. They didn't really need to, he had thought. What with the bond and everything. Now he finds himself digging through his memories to replay the times when Spock said that to him with words, and when he reciprocated.

He wants so much to hear those words again. He wants so much for Spock to be lying next to him again. He wants so much to have that world, all the extras, again in his life.

Jim falls asleep in Spock's quarters, aching for a voice he'll never hear, yearning for a heated touch he'll never feel. His heart beats raggedly, painfully, thudding and crying and bleeding, but he doesn't pass out. Jim falls asleep in Spock's quarters and because there's no alarm set, he oversleeps, totally exhausted by his emotions.

The crew let him sleep. They make no mention of it when he shows up for duty except to give him a good morning afternoon or night, depending on their respective shifts.

He inhales.

Time passes.


	13. First Summer, 13

Is this really all it is? Unrelenting sadness? A grey dusk and grey existence?

Fuck, two summers can't come fast enough.

At some point, he wants to be alive again. He loves Spock, but what he loved most about Spock was how the whole universe seemed to thrum with life. Yeah, there were times when they were at death's door, there were times when Jim got injured or Spock got injured or someone else in between got mauled but they kept going forwards. They supported each other and boldly went where no one had gone before. The universe was dangerous, but that didn't prevent them from flying in it. There was a thrill to living and loving that he shared with Spock. He wants it back.

He wants Spock back, that goes without saying, but next to that he wants life back. He wants the adventure that he's always found in space, he wants to feel his heart in his throat as he scrambles to make a decision and lives are on the line and in split second is all the difference between here and eternity. He doesn't want adventure as a distraction. With Spock, with his crew, they loved their jobs because they couldn't imagine doing anything else. It's not fair that death can just take that away from them.

A lot of things about death aren't fair.

It's a battle now, a balancing act between his desire to be free of this choking grief, his body and mind and heart's legitimate need to mourn, the fact that he really misses Spock and loved him and still loves him, and the memories that catch him off guard. And maybe Jim should think of this as just another aspect of living, one that all people eventually end up facing. But as far as his life experiences go, this one is definitely towards the bottom of his list. Not the rock bottom—that's reserved for special things like Tarsus IV or Vulcan imploding. Or discovering Spock's dead body. Yeah, those were definitely worse. But this one's down there, somewhere.

He doesn't get how Bones can stand being a doctor. He's always respected his friend for his devotion to the medical profession, been grateful more than a few times to be in the care of such skilled hands. Still, Jim knows that Bones has seen a lot of death and not just on a starship, but back on Earth too. Given the fact that the doctor seems to take each death a bit more personally than is probably healthy or wise, he's got no idea how his friend keeps it together.

Bones thinks Jim's a mental case. It takes one to know one.

On the flip side, Jim thinks that Bones is probably the one person among all the people he's met that values life so fiercely and guards it so devotedly. Maybe Bones takes each death that happens in his Sickbay a little too personally because his heart's able to stand that kind of repeated grief—because his heart has the room and processing power to accept it. The doctor gives generously in both his skill and affection, and Jim realizes that Bones is the most honest person he knows. He can't feign emotion. It runs so strong and pure in him that it can't come out any other way except in its natural form.

So when Bones says that deep down, Spock was human—it's the highest compliment the man can give. Because being human means something completely different to Bones than it does to regular people, just as being alive means something else entirely. Jim's not entirely what it means to his best friend. He's not even sure that Bones could put it into words if you asked him.

Jim looks at Bones and the world tilts. A thousand things he never considered come flooding into him, like how amazing it is that Bones is out in space. They would all tease him about his aviaphobia and his deep mistrust of space. Bones would never give a straight answer when they asked him why he was serving on a five year deep space mission to begin with. He'd just fire back some sarcastic reply or make a joke. It suddenly occurs to Jim that Bones is being completely sincere when he thinks that space is death.

Because space _is_ death. Or rather, the lack of life. It's emptiness and a vacuum, it's literally filled with nothing. In between there are stars and planets, in between there are galaxies. Where Jim and the others see adventure and the great unknown, Bones sees disease wrapped in darkness and silence. He sees the overwhelming power and inevitability of death, but he also sees miracles. Miracles in the form of planets that support life, miracles in the form of life going about its business despite—or perhaps in spite of—the darkness and death and space that surrounds it.

And isn't that the point of medicine? To sustain life, despite—or in spite of—the fact that they will all die anyway.

Maybe Bones is out in deep space to remind himself of the rarity of life and to admire the beauty of it. Like a pilgrim, he's on a journey to witness a miracle.

There are so many miracles. Despite—or in spite of—the sheer emptiness, there is life. And on top of life there is love.

Is this what Bones sees? Is this what keeps him going?

He asks him one day. The words come out all garbled, it's not exactly what he meant, but the look in his best friend's eyes confirms that he understood everything Jim's getting at. So when he asks, "Is that what keeps you going?" he already knows the answer. It's just a confirmation.

"Yeah, Jim. That's what keeps me going."

It gives and doesn't give an answer to his own dilemma.

Then it strikes him that Bones and Spock were much more similar than anyone could imagine. Because Spock loved life too. He knew, with a scientific accuracy that included error terms and probabilities calculated down to the seventeenth decimal place, the rarity of life. He was a commanding officer, but he was also a scientist thoroughly fascinated by all the worlds they visited. He was a half human half Vulcan who had IDIC running in his green copper veins. Jim couldn't even begin to count the number of times that Spock's eyes lit up surveying and recording and observing and reporting the diversity contained in the universe.

Bones and Spock approached the whole matter of life differently, they ruled their own lives by totally opposite paradigms. But at the core, they both loved it. In the end, they tried to live it to its fullest measure.

Grief rises again. Grief and a reminder of death. This time it reach down deep inside him and pulls, because it seems like an injustice that Spock, who loved life so much, who lived it with his own passion and energy, should be dead. And for himself, because Jim knows that his own perceptions of life and death have changed irrevocably.

He still has no answers. He still aches for Spock and the love they shared.

But more than that, he breaks down in front of Bones right in the middle of Sickbay because he misses the life they shared.


	14. First Summer, 14

Maybe grief is another aspect of living.

As he steps out of his self constructed shell, he finds that practically every single one of his crew has a story. The circumstances aren't the same, the details don't match, the relationships are different, but it's like a common denominator. Not all species have love, not all aliens think the same way, not everyone smells or sees or hears or whatever the same, but they all know death, just as they all know life. Those are the two things that bind them all.

At times, he wants to rage at them and recoil. You don't know what it's like. You don't know who Spock was, you don't know what he was to me, you don't know what I lost what everyone lost when he died. You've never felt that kind of bond that kind of love so you'll never understand.

It's true. They'll never understand. Just as he'll never understand what it's like to lose a son to a transporter accident or a best friend to the Klingons or a brother to madness or a baby to miscarriage. Just as he'll never really understand his mother and all she went through. He doesn't have a toddler and a newborn who are upset and crying and can't understand exactly what death means but knows that something's wrong something's very wrong and nothing can sooth the wrongness because she feels so empty inside and she feels she has nothing she can give these children but she tries as best as she can, tries her hardest through the grief and leaning on love.

They don't understand, but they've seen. Their eyes give them away. Sometimes Jim feels like he's stepped into another world because he sees so many things he hadn't seen before.

Everyone has their own story.

There are some who don't. There are some who haven't seen and can't understand, and Jim finds that he doesn't resent them for it. He's glad for them, he wants them to keep living carelessly, without a second thought about grief. They'll have to face it sometime—it's inevitable. He's not in a hurry to introduce them though.

Maybe that's why Spock gave him a second chance and forgave him so easily, even though he didn't know exactly how much was being forgiven. Because in the depths of those dark eyes and the rigidity of his logic, there was a generosity and compassion beyond words, something that can't be taught or bought except at an unbearably high price that no one would ever willingly pay. Did he see in Jim the same obliviousness that Jim now sees in others?

No. Spock knew him better than that. He saw the different kinds of hurt that had been inflicted on Jim. He knew that Jim felt the loss of Vulcan because his counterpart couldn't help but transfer the overwhelming emotion to this willing outlet, a man who once comforted him in every way in another timeline. Spock knew the holes that riddled Jim's life and he slowly filled each one, unbeknownst to them both.

When Spock died, Jim thought everything was ripped out from him again.

But that's not quite what happened. Things were ripped, new holes were made, but a lot remained intact. Spock's love healed him from his past hurts in a way that couldn't be reversed. They didn't have the lifetime that they should have had, but in the time they had together they experienced more than some people will ever have in a lifetime.

These are new hurts that he's dealing with, ones that he's never had to face before. Everyone has their own story. Jim has more stories than most people.

It should make him bitter. It should leave him raging at the universe at the fucking unfairness of it all. He's already raged at the universe so many times. And it seems so cruel that right when he feels like everything is going well, for once for just this fucking once in his life, Spock dies. Scratch that—it doesn't seem cruel, it _is_ cruel.

In some ways, it does leave him bitter and hard, closed off and guarded. Spock would be only one who could coax him out of it.

But Jim's not that kind of person. He just isn't. There's no reason for it that you could pinpoint, nothing in his genetic code that marks him, aside from the fact that he's his mother's son and father's legacy. Aside from the fact that he's a survivor of Tarsus and has literally been called the savior of Earth. Aside from the fact that he's the captain of the _Enterprise_ and best friend of Bones, commanding officer of the finest crew in the Federation and Spock's lover.

No one understands, no one understood except Spock, but there are others out there who see. They can't replace Spock, but they make things bearable. His crew makes every shift tolerable. And as time goes by, as two summers come closer, he knows he'll probably be okay in all the places where it counts.

Somehow he knows that if Spock is alive, continued as a soul or katra or nebulous spirit, he's smiling. Because this—James Tiberius Kirk—is the man Spock fell in love with, and he would expect no less from the man he chose to be _t'hy'la_.


	15. First Summer, 15

Nyota is playing Spock's lute.

Jim's supposed to be going to the bridge to check up on something but he forgets that when he passes the rec room and he hears the sound of the lute. He could never mistake it anywhere. It's one of the few hobbies that Spock had. He once told Jim that more than anything, music had always connected him to his suppressed emotions.

Nyota's got this expression on her face that's indescribable. It's not sad but it's not serene either. Not quite acceptance or resignation. There's an underlying strength to her expression though. Jim can see why Spock was once attracted to her. Hell, Jim was attracted to Nyota, for sort of different but kind of similar reasons.

He wonders how Scotty's holding up. Spock's death can't have been easy on them either.

By the sounds of it, Nyota's gotten a lot better at the lute than the last time he heard her play. It's a tricky instrument because the strings are so close together that it really takes Vulcan precision to get it right. The knobs are also especially sensitive, so it also takes Vulcan ears to pinpoint the exact tuning you might want. Jim's not a musical—he only knows this because Spock told him.

Her proficiency's up too. Her fingers pluck the strings deftly, quickly. The shifts in the notes are graceful, less jarring. The complexity of the piece she's play is definitely in the more advanced range of lute repertoire. It's impressive. She must've practiced a lot.

Jim narrows his eyes and he imagines that he can make out the blisters on her fingers from all the hours of practice. Nyota's temper can be unpredictable. He envisions sheet music scattered on the floor and the lute thrown to the side, Nyota pacing her room in frustration because she just doesn't get how anyone could play that seventh passage. Then broken sobs coming out as she crouches to the floor and collects the mess.

They were close. Jim's so used to thinking of Spock as his, but Spock and Nyota were very close, best friends almost like brother and sister. Nyota is the closest thing he can get to replacing Spock on the bridge. It was probably a relief for her and Spock to have each other, balancing out the craziness of their respective lovers. Scotty's as far as you can get from Nyota, just as Jim's as far as you can get from Spock.

He's not sure what this is, her decision to master the lute. Is it the way she deals with her grief? Is it a way she remembers Spock? A way to keep him alive? Is it a tribute to him? Probably some combination of all of those, and some other reasons he can't fathom. Spock and Nyota shared music with each other. He likes music, the sound of it and the rhythm and all. But he won't pretend to understand it or the enjoyment Spock derived from playing his lute. He won't pretend to know why Nyota's teaching herself how to play Spock's lute.

Yet somehow it gives him comfort. Comfort to know that he's not alone in enduring two summers, and comfort for Spock. That somehow he's living on in memory, in music, in his lute. He left a legacy, and Jim's glad that others are continuing it.

Grief seems to be about keeping memories alive as much as it is about moving on and continuing to live. Like trying to carry the dead with you, without becoming burdened down with death itself.

When Nyota's done playing, there's quiet applause. Her eyes are shining, but she smiles. As the crowd disperses or goes back to whatever they were doing, Jim walks towards her.

"What was that you played?"

She's packing the lute away carefully into its case. Nyota wipes the strings with a soft cloth, does something to the knob, and runs the cloth over the body of the lute. She closes the tip, pulls the various zippers and clasps, then finally looks up at him.

"It was Spock's favorite piece."

Jim's heart aches.

"He promised he'd teach me to play it before he died. It was a joke at the time," she looks away.

His heart aches for her, for himself, for Spock.

"I decided to teach myself."

Silence. Nyota touches the case, her hands flat against the cover.

"You sounded really good," he offers. "You've gotten a lot better, as far as I can tell. I can't really tell that much, but for what it's worth."

"Thanks."

"Are you going to keep playing? You have any other pieces lined up?"

"I don't know. I don't," her voice falters. "I don't have anything planned."

"I think you should keep playing."

She gives him a look.

"Do you know how hard it is to play this thing?"

"Nope. But, it'd be," now he falters. "It'd be nice. I like to hear you play."

Nyota doesn't reply.

"Hey, it's okay. Two summers, remember?" He looks into her eyes. "I miss him too."

"Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, not letting you trade your ship for Spock."

His heart aches.

"He wasn't supposed to go like that. He wasn't supposed to die like that," she says, voice shaking, hands still flat against the instrument case.

Jim takes the case out of her hands and pulls her close. She doesn't return his embrace, only keeps repeating those two sentences.

"He wasn't supposed to leave us like this. He wasn't supposed to die like that."

"I know," he says. "I know."


	16. First Summer, 16

Chekov mans the science station now. When he turns around in his captain's chair it's not Spock he sees, but the Russian. The Russian who sure as hell isn't seventeen anymore.

Out of them all, Pavel seems to take things the quietest. Sulu's says it's the Russian winters, the way the wind strips you of the very warmth of your own skin and slices through the marrow of your bones. You either grow a thicker skin or freeze to death.

Pavel doesn't say yes or no either way. Jim's come to rely on him as much as he relies on the rest of them. When things get bad he prefers to put Pavel on navigation because he and Sulu make an incomparable team. But otherwise, he wants the Russian's genius focused on the sensors. Spock always admired Chekov's raw intellectual power, which was saying something. He had hoped that as Pavel got older his mind would become sharper and a more effective tool.

Jim certainly thinks Pavel's growing into his own mind.

He wishes he knew what was going on with his emotions though.

It's funny how he sees different aspect of Spock in his crew. Is it because he misses Spock so much his mind goes hunting for anything that might remotely resemble him? Have those characteristics always been there? Is it because the crew is responding to Spock's absence and trying to fill the gap he left behind?

Jim's never really been that close to Chekov, not like Spock. He's spent a lot more time with Sulu. Their interests line up more naturally, they often spar or fence together, Sulu's personality's a lot more like Jim's. When he first took command, he wasn't really sure how to act around Pavel. On one hand he sympathized with him because he knows what it feels like to be the youngest prodigy boy genius sensation. On the other hand, seventeen is just fucking young. They might've been evenly matched in brainpower but that was where the similarities ended.

There was also the fact that most of the time, Jim was arguing with Spock. Then planning missions with Spock, playing chess with Spock, debating with Spock, making out with Spock, eating lunch with Spock. Basically living and breathing Spock while he was on duty, and on a lot of his time off.

Without Spock, he finds he has a lot of time on his hands.

He refuses to play chess with anyone. But he needs something to occupy his mind and the time, keep him sharp and able to think on his feet.

Sulu introduces him and Chekov the game of go. They become addicted immediately.

At first, the games are short. Jim and Pavel are fast learners though, and soon the games are stretching over an hour. Then two. Then four. Then they decide to break up their games to take place in two halves.

Jim refuses to play in his quarters, so they either take a table in the rec room or find an empty conference room.

It's fun, it's different, it's exactly what he needs. He thinks it takes some of the edge off of Pavel's face, but he can't be sure about that.

He can't help but think that Spock would've loved this game. He wonders if there any Vulcan board games they might have tried, to vary it up from round after round of chess. He also wonders why he never bothered to ask more questions about Vulcan traditions, Vulcan pastimes they might've shared. Vulcans must've had logic games, things to help them develop different parts of their mental abilities.

It hits him again. The loss of Spock's world. The loss of Vulcan, the loss of Spock, everything intertwined. The diversity that was wiped out by the mad grief of a Romulan, the precious life ended by a lucky shot to the head. It's the subtle things, the small things make his breath hitch and vision blur.

And suddenly he's afraid that he'll forget. That process of time will erode away all those small details that he treasures and misses so much. At times, he's overwhelmed by the memory of Spock, like a wave that just knocks him off his feet and drags him under until he's drowning in Spock. Other times, he feels like he's grasping to keep Spock from slipping away. His own mind feels like a treacherous thing, unreliable and frustratingly unable to preserve Spock as he was in life. Jim doesn't want distorted images and fading memories. He just wants Spock. He wanted Spock alive, but he's dead. Is it too much to ask for a clear and true memory of the only man Jim has ever shared a bond?

But there are moments. There are moments, clear and true, when the memory of Spock flashes before him and he remembers.

They are only moments, and they are few and far between. They are only moments, but they have the power to bring him to his knees.

Spock.

Why?


	17. First Summer, 17

Just as they've got their own stories, they've all got their own ways of dealing.

And as much as grief is a private thing that everyone experiences in their own way, you can't help but reach out to each other.

Maybe it's because she's a nurse, maybe it's because she went through her own hellish experience losing her fiancée, but Christine Chapel's always there in the background. For all of them.

She's the one who found him destroying himself on the Observation Deck, she's the one who took him back to Sickbay, she's the one who told Bones to back off, she's the one who held him after those aliens offered his dream his nightmare. And it's not just him she does that for.

Jim thinks she should get a commendation. But Starfleet doesn't give out awards for that kind of thing.

Christine does something that Jim's not sure he'll ever be able to do. She provides a sense of normalcy that manages to include the terrible reality. It's not that she makes grief seem normal and routine, or that she downplays the feelings by treating them as though they're part of human habit. She doesn't overemphasize or make anything dramatic. He's never seen her coddle her patients.

It's the environment she creates. It's the silent acknowledgement that grief is strong, intense, unpleasant and unwieldy and that's okay. It's okay to be overwhelmed, it's okay to laugh and forget, it's okay to cry. She makes you feel safe when you feel the most vulnerable, but she also reminds you with those grey eyes that this will pass. That the ache will go away and leave you transformed. And that's okay too.

Christine—she's one of those rare people who stands between seeing and understanding. She is more than seeing, less than understanding, a steady haven Jim didn't even know existed and didn't even realize he used. She gives sympathy, but like medicine she gives it in doses, according to however much is needed at the time. She will eventually stop giving it because there are others who have greater need, because too much sympathy can make you drunk with emotional dependence. Christine has no patience for those who purposefully seek pity.

Jim thinks that's her way of mourning.

Like him, she never got to say goodbye to her beloved. It must have been all the more agonizing because she didn't know whether Roger Korby was alive or dead for years. And when she finally learned the truth that was coupled with the brief moments she thought he had survived—Jim saw how it shattered her again. How she pulled herself together again. They still never found the doctor's body. Christine still never got the closure that humans need.

Because humans need to lay their dead to rest. They need to send them off to the next world, they need to bury them or entomb them or watch the body burn or hold elaborate ceremonies as a last rite so that they, the living, and continue on in peace. They need to be assured that the last remains of their loved ones have been properly cared for so that the dead can sleep or be at peace or take flight.

How many legends are there, in every human culture, about the dead haunting places? How many beliefs originate from this idea that the dead continue living, in their own way? Human treatment of the dead goes back to prehistoric times, when people were mere hunters and gatherers but they still decorated their dead with grave goods. It goes back to the first recorded literature, it goes back to ancient war rites when battles were halted and warriors of opposite camps came out together on the field to collect their dead. Jim remembers reading the _Iliad_, not understanding why the hell Priam would go to Achilles to ask for the body of Hector and why the hell Homer obsessed so much about funeral pyres.

Now he knows.

And he thinks this, making things safe for others to mourn, is Christine's way of trying to get closure.

He's not saying that's the only reason why she does it. He's not saying that she's unable to move on. Jim admires her quiet strength, the deep well of her compassion. He'd never noticed it before and now that he has, he's grateful in a way beyond words. But since Spock's death and the fact that their life on the _Enterprise_ continues to bring in wounded and casualties, he sees another side to her and the meaning of the unearthly grey in her eyes.

Jim wishes—he wishes a lot of things, but this is specifically for her—that they had stayed behind and searched for Dr. Korby's body.

But some things are open ended like that, and grief is the way humans try to find closure. He can't do anything about it now. Jim makes a resolution though, that he'll try his hardest to always recover the bodies of the dead.

It's the least he can do as an unspoken thank you to a woman who will never lay her own beloved to rest.

And suddenly he wonders if that is why his mother was always in space.


	18. First Summer, 18

They can always rely on each other for different things. Bones, Nyota, Sulu, Chris, Pavel, Scotty, Jim—they depend on each other to provide for whatever they themselves are deficient. They're all finding out now just exactly how much they relied on Spock, and they find that his role in their lives can't be measured or described in any proper way. He filled a place, and now he's gone. Jim has no doubt that he played some very special parts in each of their lives. Jim has no doubt because of Spock's presence in his own life.

They rely on Scotty to make them laugh. The crazy engineer is always cracking jokes and pulling pranks in the transporter room. Montgomery Scott loves a good drink, a good laugh, a good time. Jim thinks he must've been the class clown growing up, because Scotty's humor isn't black and sarcastic. It's goofy. It brings a smile to your face by the sheer silliness of it. Really, would anyone else think of trying to beam Admiral Archer's prize beagle?

They rely on Scotty to make them laugh, and most of the time he delivers. He delivers spectacularly, sometimes to the great annoyance of Nyota. Scotty pours heart and soul into the warp engines, and he's equally enthusiastic about bringing a reluctant smile to your face. It's just who he is. It's not an act or a show, but spills over from the overabundance of laughter he carries inside himself. Scotty likes to claim that it's a consequence of being raised in the grey mist and rain of his homeland. Some months it feels the dreariness of the weather will never end, so you have to bring your own vitamin D to the table.

Jim should've remembered what they say about clowns, though. Because since the death of Spock, Scotty still makes them smile, but laughter is a little harder to produce.

They all mourn in their different ways.

He can see more clearly the toll it's taking on the relationship Scotty has with Nyota. They love each other, Jim has no doubt about that. But something is broken inside Nyota that Scotty can't fix, no matter how much he might want to. He loves to see her smile, he loves to hear her laugh and there are days when she does both. There's more sadness than joy, though. And Scotty doesn't know what to do except to hold her when she starts crying.

Jim can also see that Nyota knows this. She's glad she has Scotty who'll love her and let her lean on him, but she doesn't want to dump all these wet emotions on him. A relationship is about interdependence, yes, but there's a balance there and they're both struggling to find it.

It took him and Spock a while to find it too. What they discovered was mostly that the balance constantly shifts. Sometimes he leans on Spock really hard, demands everything from him. Other times, he was there to give Spock whatever he needed. It took them a while to even admit that they needed anything emotionally from each other at all, but they got there. Scotty and Nyota are getting there. Jim feels envy course through him, watching them take solace in each other. He feels hurt and abandonment and betrayal that he's not doing that same balancing act with Spock anymore. They were a team, a partnership in every sense of the world.

Now Jim's alone.

Between Nyota and keeping the engines in shape and making the crew smile, Jim had forgotten that Scotty was friends with Spock too. The professional respect that the two men had for each other, the bond created by serving under a captain whose demands were oftentimes entirely unreasonable and too often physically impossible. They were colleagues. They both loved the same woman, they both would die for her.

So it comes as a surprise when he finds the engineer drunk off his rocker, roaring some Italian song in a thick Scottish accent. When he comms for Nyota and Bones, Sulu, Pavel, and Chris come too.

They all rely on each other for different things.

Jim and Sulu help Scotty to his feet, Chris hurries back to Sickbay to prep a biobed, Pavel hovers nearby, Bones scans Scotty with a tricorder. Nyota holds Scotty's hand, touches his face in an intimate gesture that makes Jim's heart skip a beat.

Before she takes the bottle from Scotty's hand, he holds out the scotch in a sloppy toast and says, "to you, Mr. Spock! May you have a long and happy life." Then takes a swig.

Those were the words he said at the reception on the ship, after Jim and Spock were bonded. Wed.

Then Nyota eases the bottle from his hand and Jim and Sulu are off, stumbling to Sickbay with Bones giving them unnecessary orders to keep Scotty steady. Chris has everything ready. They all hang around Sickbay for a while. Sulu offers to cover Nyota's shift and she nods gratefully, Pavel says he'll let the engineers know. Scotty lies on the biobed, sleeping. Bones says he'll be fine and goes off to prep some hangover remedy. Then, they leave. Nyota stays by Scotty's side. Jim stays long enough to see her climb into the biobed with Scotty.

Christine draws a curtain around them.

In death, Jim discovers exactly the intricate ties that bind them all.

--

_Recitar! Mentre preso dal delirio,  
non so più quel che dico,  
e quel che faccio!  
Eppur è d'uopo, sforzati!  
Bah! sei tu forse un uom?  
Tu se' Pagliaccio!_

_Vesti la giubba,  
e la faccia infarina.  
La gente paga, e rider vuole qua.  
E se Arlecchin t'invola Colombina,  
ridi, Pagliaccio, e ognun applaudirà!  
Tramuta in lazzi lo spasmo ed il pianto  
in una smorfia il singhiozzo e 'l dolor, Ah!_

_Ridi, Pagliaccio,  
sul tuo amore infranto!  
Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor!_

-"Vesti La Giubba" from _Pagliacci_


	19. First Summer, 19

He and Sulu fence every other shift. There's an unspoken agreement between them not to hold back. They just go at each other with everything they've got, to unleashed their restrained violence.

Spock would always hold back. It was necessary. Vulcan strength was just overwhelming to humans, and there was the fact that violence made Spock kind of uncomfortable. He saw it as a necessity, but the idea of using violence as a recreation never appealed to him. Jim tried to explain to him the fun of bar fights, and Spock didn't get it at all. Well, they were different people.

He and Sulu have been fencing and sparring and fighting for a long time. They're about the same height and weight, they've got different styles—you couldn't ask for a better partner. The two are both careful not to fight exclusively with each other, since you can fall into a dangerous sense of complacency. Routine is not what any fighter ever wants. That's why they partner up every other shift.

And it feels so good to lose himself in the motions of his muscles, to concentrate on not getting hit or launching a brutal attack or changing up your rhythm. All of the feelings melt and transform into something physical, something he can express that aren't tears. They ooze out of his skin in the form of sweat, they burn his muscles as lactic acid, they take a back seat and for once, Jim doesn't worry about death or change or tragedy. He's in that zone.

This is how he usually processed his emotions, before Spock forced his hand. After exhausting himself, he'd hit the showers and feel everything inside him uncoil as the hot water streamed on his back and soaked into him. Then, for reasons he's never really known but would never question, he would fuck Spock.

He loved it. He loved all the varieties of sex that he and Spock had. These fuck-Spock-after-fencing or judo or hapkido or boxing or whatever were a different flavor. Intimate with an aggressive edge, he remembers kissing Spock as he came, biting and bruising his mouth deliciously. After the bond, he would find out that Spock thought this type of sex they had was kind of weird, but that Spock still found it illogically erotic.

Now, Sulu's still alive. They still fight—mostly fence, these days—after every other shift.

But Spock is gone. There is no sex. There is no aggression or intimacy, no fucking and no kissing. And he doesn't want a replacement.

Sometimes Jim finds himself incredibly aroused after he emerges from his fresher but unable to do anything about it. Fantasizing about Spock like that just brings the grief back even harder, reinforcing the fact that he's fucking alone in his fucking quarters, that Spock is dead and buried on Vulcan II and there is nothing he can do about it. He did it once, bringing himself off because he couldn't stand it and quickly found out that sobbing and masturbating don't make any sort of combination that's in any way pleasurable. Maybe for some people it's cathartic or some shit like that. Not for him.

He considers quitting his sessions with Sulu, and with the other security officers. It's not an option. Jim's a Starfleet captain. He needs to constantly train to take care of himself, and there's also the morale factor. The security people really admire him for taking the time to get to know them. Their world consists of a different kind of currency, where status is measured by constant competition and friendship extended by helping the other person up after you've wiped them out.

They're a tight knit community and they look out for Jim and the rest of the _Enterprise_. They're the ones who put their lives on the line more often than any other crewmember, they're the ones who know the cost of death and the loss of a comrade. They're helping Jim, carrying him and seeing every mission through for their captain who has given so much and lost so much. The security personnel allow him to release his grief, spreading it among themselves and they try, in their own way, to fill a place that Spock left behind.

Because Spock was always there for his captain. He was never close to the Security Department like their captain or Sulu, but they respected him for the lengths he was willing to go for James T. Kirk and every single crewmember. Loyalty counts for a lot among soldiers, and Spock was nothing, if not loyal, to Jim.

Sulu tries to do that. Jim realizes that he chose Uhura and Sulu to be his second in command because Uhura provides Spock's brains, Sulu provides Spock's loyalty. He recognizes in Sulu's eyes the same fierce determination to protect him and the _Enterprise_. His Lt. Commander doesn't say much. Sulu's always been easygoing, never one for too many words. He shows in gestures like fencing, that he's got Jim's back.

Jim wouldn't have it any other way.

No, he would. He would have Spock alive and still with him.

Second to that, he wouldn't have it any other way.


	20. First Summer, 20

"How're you feeling, Jim?"

Jim finally agreed to take that psych evaluation Bones had been threatening ever since Spock died. When he arrives in Sickbay, Bones isn't holding the datapad of ten thousand questions that usually come with the eval. He's just sitting there and motions for Jim to sit.

"Good."

It's kind of true.

"How's your heart holding up?"

"Better. I haven't had an attack in a long time."

"How many of those capsules have you used?"

"Seven."

Bones frowns. The number's still too high for his comfort.

"How long ago was the last attack?"

Jim tries to count back the shifts. He shrugs.

"Two weeks, I think. Give or take."

"And you didn't tell me about this because—?" Bones' voice is a little accusing, a little resigned.

"It's not a big deal."

Bones snorts. It's the answer Jim always gives.

"Well, your performance ratings are definitely up. Looks like things are getting better. Whatever it is you're doing, it's working."

Jim looks away. He doesn't know what it is he's doing. And it sure as hell does not feel like anything's gotten better.

They sit there in silence.

"I thought this was supposed to be a psych eval."

"It is."

"Then why aren't you writing stuff down and asking me all those questions?"

"Do you want me to?"

"That's what you usually do, isn't it?"

"I don't have to. I can just file with Starfleet a brief and very vague report about your condition, which is what I'm planning on doing."

"Oh."

More silence.

"Things _will_ get better Jim," Bones says quietly, conviction in his voice. "You're already doing a lot better than a summer ago."

Jim jerks his head up.

"It's already been a summer?"

"Yeah, believe it or not."

"It doesn't feel like a summer."

"I know. Didn't feel that way to me either."

"How're you counting the time?"

"Georgia. Nothing complicated about it," Bones gives him a sarcastic look. "I'm not Spock, Jim."

Jim smirks.

"Believe me, I figured that one out a long time ago."

They both smile and it reaches their eyes.

The moment fades.

Silence.

"I still miss him," Jim says, voice soft.

Bones looks at him, understanding how much it cost Jim to say that out loud.

"I still wish he were alive."

"Aint a day that goes by that I don't wish the same time, Jim. For different reasons, obviously."

"Really?"

"Would I say that if I didn't mean it?"

No, of course Bones means it. Of course they all want Spock back and wish life didn't throw this curve at them. But it has, and they're all dealing with the fallout.

"Do you think I made the right decision? Back there, on that planet? Not giving them the _Enterprise_?"

"I don't know, Jim."

Jim wants an answer. He wants reassurance. He wants to know that this grief he's been dealing with has not been in vain. It's connected with another unanswered question, another desire to know whether Spock's death was in vain. What does that even mean?

"I don't know, but I'm sorry you had to make that decision at all."

A lot of people are sorry for a lot of things.

Jim feels that he's sorry most of all for not being there when Spock died, for not preventing it and not being able to do anything about afterwards, when everything was done. He feels sorry for the things he's lost, the things they all lost, and ultimately the life that Spock lost when he was shot in the head.

He wants to change the universe. He wanted to change the universe when he first became captain, but now he wants to change it in a different way. Because he's sorry that people are hurt and die every day, he's sorry that grief seems like an inescapable part of life. If he could, he would take all that sorrow and erase it, but he hardly knows how to manage his own feelings. Most days, he just feels like he's getting by.

A laugh here, a smile there, a moment when things seem right again. It's not a lot, but it seems it's enough to sustain them.

"Jim?"

He's been lost in his thoughts.

"Yeah? Sorry. I was thinking about stuff. Feelings. Things I would change."

"What ifs?"

"Kind of."

"Don't get too hung up on it."

"I know."

A pause.

"We'll be okay."

"I know."

"If Chris is right, and she usually is, we've only got to go through another summer."

"Spock died in the winter. It'll be longer till the next summer."

"We've come a long way already."

Jim shakes his head.

"You know what it felt like?"

"What?"

"A grey eternity."

Bones nods, but gives Jim a steady look.

"We've still come a long way."

Jim can't bear to keep eye contact.

"I still miss him."


	21. First Summer, 21

Grief has changed him.

Jim can't deny it.

In splitting him wide open, it has made him see things he never saw before, understand things in a way he never could have hoped to comprehend. He won't say that he regrets the knowledge—perhaps it's closer to wisdom—that he's gained. But he regrets the cause. Grief has made him more human and Jim gets the feeling that it's making him a better person, in a vague sense of the word "better." But the fucking cost.

He would rather have Spock back than know about all this.

He would rather have learned about these two sides of grief in the way that should come naturally to humans. Because this kind of knowledge—wisdom—should come in old age, not when he's this young.

Still, what is done is done, as Spock would say.

The dull haze of sadness, the grey expanse of his existence makes him realize exactly how precious happiness is. He once felt guilty about laughing and smiling. Now he treasures the times he can laugh and smile. Because the more he sees and the more he lives and mourns with his crew, the more he realizes just how much sadness the universe contains.

This isn't who he is. Jim Kirk is brash and bold. Jim Kirk is invincible, confident, always has a charming smile and always has a third option.

But this is who he is. Jim Kirk finds reasons to live despite the shit that life throws at him. Jim Kirk is brash because he's faced death and sorrow and trauma and anger and despair and he dares to continue living and laughing. Jim Kirk is bold because he faces things that should break another person but he just keeps going with a light behind his eyes and a grin on his face. Jim Kirk is invincible because he's still alive, still breathing. He's confident because he has the audacity to hope things will get better. He's got that charming smile on his face that hides secrets and the exact magnitude of the heart wrenching grief he's felt, gut stopping fear he's known. He's got a third option because death is unacceptable, sorrow is miserable, and life is precious. Life is short.

In some ways, he feels that this whole experience of losing Spock has brought him closer to his elusive Vulcan lover. Because in mourning Spock's death, he finds himself truly mourning the loss of Vulcan itself. And in realizing that Spock kept going, kept living, joined Starfleet and allowed Jim and the _Enterprise_ to change him, allowed Jim into his life and loved him, he sees so much more clearly the man he fell in love with. He sees so much more clearly the spirit of the Vulcan people and the ability they have to reform themselves from their ancient and violent ways, the ability they have to rebuild their destroyed world. Jim always knew that Spock was stubborn. He did not know that Spock was resilient.

He finds that he is resilient as well. He finds that their love is resilient, despite death and grief.

And his crew. They were blasted apart by Spock's death. They're still reeling from his loss. But they're pulling together in unexpected way, providing for each other so they can live just another day, another hour. It's not a matter of replacing Spock. They all know at the bottom of their hearts that Spock is irreplaceable, nor do they want to replace him. Still, they all have to get by. Spock is dead. They are alive. These are the facts, and they must live with them. So they make do.

This is what Bones sees, this is what Bones marvels at and sustains him as a doctor. The remarkable resilience of the human body and human spirit. No, not just humans, but life as a whole. This is what Bones accepts—that death is inevitable, that life is sometimes a matter of walking a tightrope between two extremes. This is what Bones loves—doing cartwheels on a balancing beam.

Doing cartwheels and backflips is exactly what Jim does very well.

Is that also what Spock saw? Jim sometimes wonders what Spock saw in him that he loved so much. He never asked Spock the question and now regrets not doing so.

If—and this is just a hypothetical—if Spock were to come back to life, return to him somehow, would he still love this changed Jim?

In so many ways, Jim is still uncomfortable with the changes that have been wrought in him. He looks at himself in the mirror and sees the toll of grief. The light in his eyes is different, the lines on his face are deeper. He's young and handsome, but this experience has marked him irrevocably. Would Spock still love this Jim whose smile is tempered by sadness, whose laugh is not so bright and free? Would Spock still look at him with those dark eyes and listen to his heartbeat when his heart has been broken?

Time has passed, but not so much time has passed that Jim feels that this grief does not define him. He looks back to the time when Spock was alive and wants to be that person again. Wants never to have tasted this kind of sorrow. Feels that the universe has taken so much from him already, it's not fair that they take away the last of his youth and leave him feeling like an old man trapped—blessed or cursed—in a younger man's body.

Time has passed but Jim still thinks something inside him is broken. He's not sure it can be fixed. He's not sure he wants it to be fixed. It's the last powerful thing he has connecting him to Spock, and he's afraid that if he lets go of the grief, Spock will disappear too. Jim has so little of Spock left that anything else lost, no matter how small or large, is devastating.

One summer gone. The next summer seems so far away. And does he want the next summer to come? He doesn't want time to go forward, he's always wanted time to go back. To before, to Spock alive, to living and loving. This isn't who he is. Even after Tarsus, even knowing the fate of his father in the _Kelvin_, even after Vulcan imploded, Jim never looked back. He never wanted to go back and fix things, try again, get another outcome. Now he does. Now, for this Vulcan and this lover and this instance and this grief, he wants to go back.

Spock always was the exception to every rule. Even Jim's rules.

Two summers.

Somewhere inside, he gets the feeling—he doesn't know if this is true, but he gets the feeling—that Spock does want him to move forward. He doesn't want Jim to stay stuck in the past. Jim thinks he can feel Spock gently chide him that going forward does not imply forgetting, that moving on does not mean Jim loves Spock less. It is necessary and Spock understands this. He does not blame Jim for anything, he would never hold it against him. If Jim needs permission or some kind of forgiveness, he does not need to ask it from Spock. Jim already had it, has always had it ever since Spock stepped onto the bridge that first shift so many summers ago.

The only permission and forgiveness Jim needs is from himself.

But it's not fair, Jim wails. It's not fair, and maybe he doesn't want to continue living without Spock, maybe he doesn't want to endure another summer because life is a fucking struggle. Jim protests that he's lost so much and give me one reason why I should keep walking forward, or give me some kind of reassurance that we are eternal, that you are waiting for me, that our love will outlast even your death.

And Jim imagines that Spock raises an eyebrow. That Spock reminds him he's having a conversation in his head right now, that none of this is real, that uncertainty will follow him until he himself meets the final frontier and dies. Spock tells him, with that relentless logic of his, that no one knows what happens after death and the way the living deal with death is to keep memories alive. He speculates that the construct of an eternal soul and afterlife might simply be wishful thinking on the part of humans and aliens alike. But if it is a construct, it is a necessary one, else men might go mad with despair.

That's not an answer. You always sucked at comforting people.

And you, Jim, would never accept anything less than the truth, no matter how much it costs.

Then lie to me for just this once. Lie to me and tell me you're real, that you love me after death, that we will never be parted.

Jim is met with silence. He imagines dark eyes and that look—the one that his mother wears, the one that's in his own eyes now, the one that Spock had but he's not sure he ever really saw. The look that seems to be in every single one of his crew, the one that holds no answers but some measure of comfort.

Tears stream down his cheeks.

And into the darkness, he hears someone, probably himself, whisper.

"I'm sorry."

Heart beats steadily in his chest.


	22. Interlude

At the center of the Milky Way Galaxy lies a dark heart. It is called Sagittarius A*. Astronomers believe that this heart is a supermassive black hole, 6.7 billion kilometers in diameter containing the equivalent of 2.5 million Terran suns.

Optical and infrared images of this region reveal hundreds, thousands of stars orbiting around the dark heart of the galaxy—the red-orange of the cooler stars, the piercing blue of the hotter. Some of these stars orbit Sagittarius A* at 5000 km/s, or 0.00167_c_. The black hole itself cannot be seen in the photos.

Radio images show gas, streaming in columns, follow an inevitable path into the circle of the black hole. In these images, everything is tinted red. Sagittarius A* is a glowing red organ that pulses with the red gas-blood matter coursing into through the thick-thin columns. Columns resemble veins surrounded by clouds of blood from burst vessels. The black hole itself looks eerily like a human heart, and one could divide it into a left and right ventricle by the shades of red.

Most of the stars around Sagittarius A* are old. Going out further into the galactic core, star formation is relatively rare. This region is mostly populated with red main sequence stars. X-rays reveal the presence of stellar corpses in the form of more black holes, neutron stars, and white dwarfs.

Mixed in the fray are massive stars, relatively young and evolved Wolf-Rayet stars blown about in stellar winds, short-lived OB stars surrounded by Strömgren spheres of ionized hydrogen. Scientists still debate the way in which these stars could have formed, because the environment around the galactic heart is severe. There's a large magnetic field, strong tidal forces, weird distributions of gas and dust. All of these factors in turn restrict the rate of cloud collapse and the composition of the star. Conditions are far from ideal.

That doesn't change the fact that these stars exist.

Stars are born and they die. They begin as clouds of matter, space dust collecting and conglomerating because of the simple and complicated fact that objects with mass have gravity. Molecular cores form inside these nebulae, then as its density increases it collapses into a protostar. The protostar exerts more gravitational force on its surroundings and itself, accumulating matter and pulling everything tighter and tighter and it begins to heat up. It heats up, emits energy through radiation, pressure builds in the center, the density keeps increasing, the temperature just keeps climbing until.

Until fusion.

The star reaches maturity.

The life of a star depends on its mass. For the most part. Other minor factors like metallicity can come into play, but mass is key. Depending on the mass, stars lead very different lives. Star death is determined by mass too.

Death is thought to take one of three forms. And it is interesting to note that stars can resurrect, if they manage to inject themselves with matter from another star.

For low mass stars, death comes when the core is depleted of helium. During the main part of their lifetime, low mass stars fuse hydrogen to produce helium. When the supply of hydrogen begins to run out the star fuses helium, producing carbon and sometimes oxygen. After the helium is consumed, the star is effectively inert.

It's not that there is nothing left to burn, but that the fire isn't hot enough. Beyond helium, low mass stars lack the temperatures necessary to keep fusion going in their core. What remains of the star is a white dwarf surrounded by a planetary nebula—shells of gases from the layers of the original star that burn around the dead core.

For high mass stars, death comes in two main forms: a neutron star or, more famously, a black hole. The cause of death is somewhat different from their low mass counterparts since the core of high mass stars are hot enough to continue fusion. In the lifetime of these stars, the core will burn through hydrogen, helium, carbon, oxygen, neon, magnesium, silicon, sulfur. The fusion of silicon and sulfur produce iron and nickel.

Not all forms of fusion release energy. In particular, the fusion of iron and nickel require energy to be consumed in the reaction. However, stars radiate energy away into space. There is no mechanism by which they redirect energy produced back into the center of the core. As a result, iron and nickel accumulate in the core, and death begins.

Then, one of two things happens. Either gravity rips through the electron degeneracy pressure that had been keeping the atoms in the core apart from each other, or nuclear fusion is so intense that the mass of the core totally surpasses the Chandrasekhar limit of 1.4 solar masses. In the first case, protons and electrons combine to neutrons and neutrinos, giving rise to a neutron star. The second case is a black hole.

All of this—birth, life, and death—because objects with mass have gravity.

At the center of a star is a burning core.

At the center of the galaxy lies a dark heart.

[ In sleep, Jim dreams that Spock is alive. He dreams of the night after they were bonded on Vulcan II, remembering the cool wind of the desert whispering into their room, finding the image of diaphanous curtains blowing in and out with the cadence of the breeze strangely clichéd and indescribably intimate. He was still getting used to the bond, slightly disoriented by the presence of Spock touching certain points in his mind.

They did not have sex that night. It would've been too weird and alien, what with Jim still trying to adjust to the ghostly feeling of having a second heartbeat in his chest, a second awareness in the spaces of his brain. And in retrospect, it would've been unfair to Spock, who was already holding back from inundating Jim with the full strength of the bond.

Instead, Spock took Jim through a low-key meditative exercise. They sat before each other on the floor.

"Close your eyes. Concentrate on your heart beating, t'hy'la."

Jim's heart skips a beat hearing that word.

He feels a spark of Spock's laughter diffuse through his mind and he opens his eyes. Spock isn't smiling, but he _is_. And it feels so good.

"Close your eyes, Jim," amusement tinges his voice. "Feel the beat of your heart."

It's harder than it seems like it should be. His brows furrow as he tries to concentrate, but nothing. Annoyance and frustration mount when suddenly, he feels Spock's warm hand on his. Jim keeps his eyes closed as Spock guides his hand until it rests over his heart. It takes a little while, but soon, Jim can feel the faint beat of his heart.

He finds himself becoming aware of other things, like the rhythm of his breathing. It evens out, his whole body seems to relax with each breath. Spock keeps his hand over Jim's hand over his heart.

Then he realizes that Spock's breathing exactly matches his. With that awareness, he suddenly finds himself wondering if Spock can control his breathing through the bond.

"It is not a matter of control, but as you felt, awareness. Once we become more familiar with each other's biorhythms, we will be able to learn how to direct them."

Jim can think of a thousand ways that might be useful.

"Indeed."

At least half of those thousand ways are related to sex.

Spock's hand tightens over his and for a moment, Jim literally feels Spock stop breathing. Aching and desire tease at the edges of his awareness, his heartbeat seems to speed up a little. Then, with a shuddering inhale and a long exhale, he feels Spock reign everything back in. For the first time, he understands exactly how much strength underlies his Vulcan's self control.

Jim opens his eyes.

"You've wanted this for a long time."

Spock lets go of his hand and looks at Jim, desire still dark in his eyes.

"Yes. However, you must build your own awareness first, so that you are not overwhelmed by the presence of another in your mind. There have been cases among Vulcans where one bondmate dominated over the other. Like physical strength, some minds are stronger than others and as with physical violence, it is possible to abuse that power."

To anyone else, it would sound like Spock's afraid of his own strength. Jim knows this isn't true. They both saw exactly how well matched they were for each other in terms of raw power when the bond was forming, and Jim felt Spock exult in that fact. It's not a matter of strength, but a matter of training. Just because Jim has a lot of potential doesn't mean he can't be laid to waste by a few telepathic sweeps of his system.

Spock wants—needs—to take the time to teach Jim so that he won't accidentally blow out part of Jim's mind while he's, for example, coming. It's a possibility, if Spock's moans in bed are anything to go by.

"T'hy'la," Spock's voice is strained. "You are projecting."

"Oh. Sorry," Jim touches his index and middle finger to Spock's wrist. "Guess that's another thing we'll have to cover."

Jim tries to project calm and quiet through the touch. He finds himself centering on his heart, imagining the steady and humanly lopsided beat pumping the lifeblood of his body.

Gradually, overlaid in the awareness of his own heart and breath, is an awareness of Spock's heart and breath. The beat is much faster than his own and it alarms him. That disappears as he becomes aware of how _right_ this heartbeat is for Spock, how the rapidity perfectly fits the needs of a body and blood so different from his own. He finds himself fascinated with these sounds, his slow heart like a fundamental tone, Spock's heart and breath like overtones that enrich the timbre of their bodies.

He feels he can almost touch Spock's heart itself, that he could hold it in his hands and marvel at the dark green pulse. Jim moves his hand from Spock's wrist to his ribs, finding the approximate location of his lover's heart. The awareness grows stronger and the way that their hearts complement each other makes Jim smile. He feels Spock relax a little and with that relaxation comes Spock's deep satisfaction, his uniquely Vulcan knowledge that _this_ is a bond, and his barely contained anticipation to see how much farther they can go. Because this is also only a beginning.

Jim loses his sense of time. Or rather, he counts time by the beats of their heart, by the breaths of their lungs, by the soft sound of curtains blowing in and out like the sail of an old Earth ship.

He anchors himself, they anchor each other, in the rhythms of their bodies.

In dreams, Jim's heart is not beating alone. But it is just a dream, and he will wake up to excruciating silence and the loss of a man who was not only a lover, but written into the very beat of his body. Spock was his counterpoint, his overtone, the person that made everything richer and extra.

Grief is not a matter of finding another partner to sing the same duet. It's a matter of rewriting the music entirely—rewriting and being rewritten—to accommodate the loss of that unique voice.

When he wakes, Jim presses his hand to his chest. He feels like his heart is broken and bleeding, sobbing quietly despite the first summer that has passed. But it's still beating, pounding out music and half expecting that despite death, its other half will answer the call. ]

For thousands of years, humans have thought their world the center of the universe.

First, it was at the dawn of civilization. Zhōngguó—the Middle Kingdom. All roads lead to Rome. The land between two rivers. Concurrent with that are traditions in human myths—the land of the gods above and the underworld of the dead below. Humans, the living, go about their business between Tian-Heaven-Vyahrtis-Asgard and Erebus-Naraka-Hell-Duat.

Then it was the solar system. Humans saw the night sky and saw the stars move across it, while they remained stationary. They saw the sun travel from east to west while the firm rock of Earth never moved. They saw the inconstant moon change its face regularly. The heavenly bodies must revolve around the Earth, all must be geocentric because that was the only way anything made sense.

Then it was the universe. If the earth could not be the center of the solar system, it must be the center of the universe. By this time, humankind had thought of itself as the center of all things for so long that the idea of being in the periphery was unacceptable. It was inconceivable that humans, in all their intelligence and technology and dominion over their great and wondrous planet, should not be masters of the space beyond. It was a gift, it was destiny, it was the right and necessary order of things, and on and on.

Over the years, humans have found that their solar system is halfway between the core and the edge of the galaxy, that the form of matter with which their galaxy is composed actually makes up less than five percent of the universe, that the universe itself is unimaginably large and their sun unimaginably common.

Yet they persist in believing that they are the center of the universe.

And perhaps it can't be helped, given their limitations, given the restrictions placed on their brain. Humans have a terrible habit of anthropomorphizing everything they see, drawing comparisons to their experiences to make things more understandable and relatable. At the center of their science and all their knowledge, one finds that man is still the measure of all things.

Thus, they speak of stars in terms of birth, life, and death when in fact, stars are not "living" in the human sense at all. The black hole at the center of their galaxy is not a dark heart, the gases that flow into it are not a form of stellar lifeblood. The harsh conditions in which stars are formed imply certain scientific facts about the course of a star's existence, but the word "harsh" is loaded with human meaning. It evokes ideas of a struggle, of a difficult human experience.

Stars do not struggle any more than they are born, live, and die. Matter is matter, energy is energy, gravity is gravity, time is time.

Matter is transformed to energy, energy is radiated away, everything in the universe changes between different states of existence, but that is different from life and death.

Yet humankind is consumed with this question of life and death, searching for it in the outer reaches of space, looking in the center for answers.

_What is man, that thou art mindful of him_?

At the center of the universe lies a vastness unknown to humans—that is how it has always been.

At the center of the limited _H. sapiens_ universe is their own reflection, the image of a hand reaching to grasp something that may not even be there. That may not even exist.

For thousands of years, humans have mistaken their center of the universe for _the_ center of the universe.

For thousands of years, humans have assumed that a center exists. They yearn to find it with each passing age, and they hope that it is meaningful.

[ So what?

So the fuck what?

Forget meaning and that shit, forget the metaphysical musings and that crap.

At the center of every living thing's existence, there are facts. There is the fact that they are living, there is the fact that they will die. There are other facts too, like the fact that some feel, some think, some see, some hear. Some put roots in the ground, some fly in the air, some walk on four legs, some swim in the sea. Some breathe through circuits. That's the fact of the diversity of life.

But for all living things, absolutely unavoidable is the fact of death. Death that ends all things. Death that's kind of a paradox, because even as one life is ended, the rest continues on. Everything keeps moving forward irrevocably to—whatever it's moving towards.

So what if humans want to compare the evolution of star to the biological life cycle? It does little to nothing for their understanding of stars, but it does something for their understanding of themselves. Humans draw parallels to the things around them to see more clearly their own condition, the simultaneous comedy and tragedy of their approximate universe.

Want to know what's at the center of the universe?

At the center of the universe is balance.

Balance between the thousand dichotomies that characterize the universe, balance between the binaries of existence and non-existence. Between the black and white of life and death are _colors_. Not shades of grey.

Yeah, even grief. Even that grey eternity is made of mauves, dusty blues, matte yellows. The colors of dawn, right before the sun rises.

Spock once told Jim that he marveled at life because it could produce beings that created their own meaning. They made it, proclaimed it, searched for it, sometimes found it despite—or in spite of—the vast emptiness of the universe. A few years later, Jim told Spock he marveled at life because it gave him love. It gave him Spock.

Spock is dead. He's learning to live with that, even though he hates that he has to. Spock is the love of his life. He remembers Spock in his ship, in the steady beat of his heart, in the lives of his crew. He hates it, he wants the real live person, but he's learning to live with it.

So yeah, he looks to the dark heart of the galaxy and finds meaning there. Yeah, he thinks about the stars and marvels at the fact that they live, they die, they give light, they are extinguished. It does nothing for his understanding of astrophysics, but Jim doesn't need that. He already knows that matter is matter, energy is energy, gravity is gravity, and time is time.

What he is learning is that life is not simply life, and death is not merely death.

And grief, measured in summers, is a matter of balance.

At the center of Jim's universe is a beating heart. Surrounding him are Bones Nyota Sulu Chekov Chris Scotty, each with their burning cores and steady determination to live, remember, grieve, and laugh. Spock's death ripped a hole in their center, leaving behind a large magnetic field, strong tidal forces, weird distributions of gas and dust. Conditions are far from ideal.

That doesn't change the fact that they—Jim, his crew—exist.

More than that, the center exists. And even if, in the grand 93 billion light-year spread of the universe, 400 billion stars of the Milky Way Galaxy, 14 billion years since the Big Bang scheme of things that center has no meaning, James T. Kirk laughs and he _makes_ it meaningful. His crew make it meaningful.

Because so the fuck what. Spock is dead, Jim is alive and one day he will die but until that day, he loves Spock and he will make his own meaning shift to shift, day to day, summer to summer. Because he is James Tiberius Kirk and he is the man Spock fucking _chose_ to be _t'hy'la_.

At the center of Jim's grief, he can see himself more clearly. He can see the reflection of his hand reaching out to Spock, he is reminded of the vision of Spock reaching out for his mother. But also in that reflection is the image of his crew. He can see the ties that bind them, the ways they rely on each other, the stories they carry inside themselves.

Is this what Spock found in the days after Vulcan was destroyed? Is this what he saw reflected in his alternate self? Is that ultimately why he took—there's no other way to say it—a leap of faith and gave Jim a second chance?

Jim will never know. But he is certain of this: Spock must have found his center or created it in the early years of serving on the ship.

And in doing so, in exposing himself and allowing life to transform grief into love and laughter, he became the center of Jim. Possibly the center of the _Enterprise_ itself.

Spock is dead. In that reflection is an image of all they lost.

Time passes.

His heart continues beating.

Jim begins his second summer. ]

At the center of the Milky Way Galaxy lies Sagittarius A*.

_What is man, that thou art mindful of him?_


	23. Second Summer, 1

Jim doesn't know why or how, but grief seems to follow him.

They're on a diplomatic mission. It's an unusual situation because the old Chief has just died. An entire planet has stopped all activity to mourn his death.

This species doesn't do grief in black. They do it in dazzling color. Every building hangs with wreaths upon wreaths of gorgeous flowers that are native to the different regions of the planet. The air stinks of rotting petals, the thick fragrance of sweet nectar and dusty pollen hangs like death itself. As he and his diplomatic team walk through the streets, they crush whole flowers under the heels of their boots, releasing the scent and utterly saturating their senses.

By the end of the day, Jim's about to throw up from the heaviness of it all.

Jim's mission is to negotiate with these people to open up some trading routes with neighboring planets. It's a tricky mission since there's some bad blood between the different parties. Starfleet's expecting him to get good results because they think he's some sort of miracle worker. The motivating theory behind this treaty is that strong interplanetary trading in this sector will have a ripple effect and lend to the overall economic strength of the Federation itself. They also want to stabilize a neighboring star system that's just gotten over a massive world war. Since the Federation is currently hard up on funds, they hope that investment from the private sector or other planetary governments will contribute to the rebuilding efforts.

Starfleet's expecting him to get all this done in less than a week because they think he's some sort of miracle worker. This recent development with the dead Chief was completely unanticipated—Jim's learned the hard way that death always comes unannounced, even when you _are_ expecting it—and has the potential to put a significant wrench in the Federation's plans. The newly elected Chief is much less receptive to this idea of opening more trading lines. Looking over the mission brief, Jim has to admit that he has some good reasons to be opposed to it all.

A year ago, he would've pasted a smile on his face, paid respectful attention to the elaborate mourning ceremonies they perform, then gotten right down to business.

A year ago, Spock was alive.

Jim ignores his deadlines. Or rather, he reorganizes his priorities. Getting the treaty written in a timely manner is important, but giving this planet and its people time and space is higher up on his list. He recognizes that he could be a bastard and use their emotional vulnerability to pressure them into things they don't actually want. To be honest, he might have done that a year ago. He might have justified it by saying that it's for a good cause.

Everything's different now.

When he meets the new Chief, he gives the formal greeting that Nyota drilled into him, immediately followed by two kisses on each cheek—their way of conveying condolences. The Chief is offended at first, but something in the captain's eyes stop him from recoiling at the motion.

There is—something is established. Not understanding, not common ground, but the extending of a gesture pulls a thread between them.

The first hours between the captain and the Chief is not spent discussing the treaty. Instead, the diplomatic party is given a tour of the capital city, invited to witness the ceremonies of the day. Somewhere in between or afterwards, the Chief's aides and the captain's landing party notice them slipping away into private conversation. The Chief does most of the talking, the captain listens.

He recognizes in this new Chief the same burden he carries in himself. Just as Jim had to lead the crew through the death of Spock and project an image of confidence, this alien leader must do the same for an entire planet. Jim has no idea from which source he drew the strength and willpower to deliver those three eulogies and keep the _Enterprise_ running, but he can see this Chief struggling the same way—he and the deceased Chief had been close. They hadn't always agreed and they weren't quite friends, but they had been united in their dedication to governing the planet.

All around them hang the strings of purple, magenta, bright blue, orange, lime green flowers in various stages of bloom and death. A breeze mixes the air and the potent smells wash over him again. Jim feels his stomach churn, but he watches the Chief close his eyes and inhale deeply. For that moment, deep grief seems to etch itself into the Chief's face. When the breeze passes and the Chief exhales, the placid, neutral expression typical of the species returns.

"We have a myth among my people—it's not believed by the people of the North, but many in the South have this legend, or variations of it—that the essence of a person is carried in flowers."

The Chief is not a poet. He is practical, he is a politician, he was educated at the best universities his planet has to offer. He has no time for things like grief and flowers; he has a planet to govern and a Starfleet officer here to make a treaty that he is not sure will truly be for the benefit of his planet. Yet he finds himself saying these things anyway.

"The old Chief, he was from the South. It is in honor of his heritage that the people here have decorated every surface with these flowers. Hanging the flowers, we remember his life. When the flowers fall and people step on them, it is like death. The smell still reminds us of everything he was. The streets are full of flowers, the air perfumed everywhere we go because he touched every part of our lives, from the criminals who sit in prison to these children playing here."

There's a small gang laughing wildly and throwing fistfuls of petals at each other. When they see the adults, they become hushed, look at each other nervously, then scamper away to another alley.

Jim never knew this old Chief. Despite the absence, he feels he can see him, get some vague outline of the leader he must have been.

"The breeze will carry him away. In a few days, the flowers will all fall and the city will stink of the decay. The place I come from, we have always believed that is the legacy death leaves behind. A stink."

The Chief's eyes are far away.

"Then we will go through and tear the flowers down, sweep the streets, clean our lives of the stench and finally bury his spirit. And all will proceed forwards."

Jim knows it will go forwards for the people. They got their holiday and feasts, their flowers and ceremonies. They loved their Chief, but they did not know him—that's how it is for many leaders. For this new Chief, it will proceed forwards, but not smoothly. Not easily. He will learn to juggle his grief and his responsibilities because he has to. And unlike governance, no one can tell him how to go about doing this. He'll learn, or he won't.

The moment passes. They make eye contact and the captain nods.

"Captain Kirk. Shall we discuss this treaty?"


	24. Second Summer, 2

Later that night, Jim will leave his rooms and walk the streets of the capital. He will slip into plain black pants and plain black undershirt, strap on his communicator and lace up his boots. The doormen and security guards will respectfully ask him where he's going and he'll answer them honestly. He wants to walk the streets. They will ask him if he needs a security detail to accompany him, and he will refuse.

(When the captain leaves the premises, Lt. Camille will notify Commander Uhura. The Commander will send two _Enterprise_ security personnel to follow the captain discreetly, allowing him privacy. She will try to return to sleep, but the smell of the flowers will make that sleep uncomfortable. She will dream.)

Jim will walk down the long and elaborate promenade that leads to the main part of the city. He will walk through the gates into the open streets where he will be greeted with more government buildings, museums, all tastefully decorated with professional garlands. He will turn away from the order and permanence these buildings represent and seek out other avenues.

(Lt. Camille and Lt. Lottorenz will focus their attention on the surrounding areas. Their eyes will sweep over shadows, their ears will listen for erratic sounds in the cadence of the city's night. They will follow their captain as they were trained, they will maintain a respectful distance, they will never let him out of their sights.)

He will wander. He will remember the city's eminently logical layout, he will be able to recall accurately the different neighborhoods, and he will always orient himself accordingly. As he walks, he will be aware that two of his security officers are following him and he will be tempted to call them off. Then, he will push that desire aside and remember that he is a captain of a starship on an alien planet on a fairly important diplomatic mission. He will admire their sense of duty, he will be annoyed at Uhura, he will find reasons to commend their conduct. And he will let go, knowing that if anything happens, there are two pairs of capable hands ready to come to his side.

(As security officers, they are trained to notice details. When the captain changes his stride and relaxes his slightly defensive posture, the two lieutenants will realize that their captain knows they're following him. They will also understand that he trusts them not to let anything happen. They will uphold that trust. They will protect his life with theirs, if necessary.)

Everything will look different at night. The lamps covered in flower strings will cast strange light and shadows on the pavement. Some of the blooms will be closed. The combination of yellow light, dark-bright flowers, and jagged shadows will make a fantastic landscape that might be seen in both pleasant dreams and terrible nightmares. The air will be cooler but still laden with dead-fresh fragrance.

He will wonder what Spock would think of it all, this garish display of the planet's flora, this decorative waste of resources. He will recognize that while he can guess what Spock might have thought, he doesn't actually know. He wants to know. He doesn't want to replace Spock's true thoughts with his projected thoughts. He wants the startling and unexpected opinions that Spock had, the way that he applied logic in the most unorthodox ways.

Spock would explain to him again that it's not his logic that is unorthodox, but his underlying assumptions. Spock was constantly changing his assumptions about everything, questioning the world around them. He questioned Jim, after all. Challenged him to consider things in a totally new light.

This very public and very emotional and very colorful display of grief—Spock might raise his brows. He might step lightly and carefully on the pavement, instead of stomping all over the blossoms as Jim seems to be doing in his wanderings. He might take in the sheer variety of flowers, pick out details beyond superficial things like the color and the number of petals. He might listen to that myth of the Chief and consider how the belief parallels many other cultures on other worlds, comparing the ephemeral nature of life to that of flowers.

Might and might and might and might, maybe and if and tomorrow and yesterday. Jim wants Spock next to him on this night drenched in flowers. He doesn't want to wonder if Spock's spirit could be encapsulated in a desert bloom. He will wander on the street, across avenues, kicking up petals and memories, scents and the once delicate softness of these blossoms.

If they were doing this together—Jim would've had to convince Spock first—he would sneak a kiss to Spock's fingers. He would be struck by the way some petals felt exactly like the skin behind Spock's ear. He wouldn't mention any of this to Spock, but Spock would know. They would walk side by side until Jim got tired of the smell or Spock got distracted by some fascinating specimen. Spock would probably wish he had his tricorder with him, or maybe he would've brought it with him anyway. If he did, Jim would one part amused and two parts insulted that Spock turned a private—he would refuse to call it romantic—time between them into yet another mini-scientific mission.

Spock would probably ignore Jim projecting into their bond. Or he might be two parts amused and one part annoyed that Jim didn't share his unending interest in everything.

They were different people. That was another one of those 'always had been, always will be' things they shared.

Jim will walk through a city that is drenched in the memory of one dead man. It will not matter to him that the dead man these aliens mourn is not the same as his. He will walk the night as if in a dream, fully aware that it is easier to imagine the vision of Spock next to him in these patches of darkness that wrap around him like the petals of a flower.

(Lt. Camille and Lt. Lottorenz are professional and devoted, but there will be times when they feel like they are intruding on the captain's private world, his private thoughts. They will not say anything to each other, but the feeling will hang heavy in the air like the abominable scent that lingers in the city. They will find relief by looking away for brief seconds. They will resolve not to say a word to the captain, and they will gain a new understanding of this man who leads them, who seems indomitable. For the first time they will wish truly and sincerely that the Commander never died.)

The walk alone (but not alone) through the city will provide some sort of relief for Jim. It will give him a sense of quiet intimacy that he only ever found with Spock. He will carry out disjointed dialogs in his head with not-Spock, thinking in woulds, maybes, mights. He will smiles, he will pause, he will stop and peer closely at the sidewalk. He will let go, but he will also not let go, knowing that there are two Starfleet officers following him. Jim wears his captain's mask like a second skin. The only people who can reach past it are his core crew. The only person who always saw through it was Spock.

He will return back to his lodgings at a reasonably late hour. He will not turn around and have a few words with the lieutenants. Commander Uhura will do that for him. Instead, he will trust that they understand, and they will understand. They had already accepted the nature of their jobs while they underwent Giotto's rigorous program—they will not expect him to thank them for simply doing it. They will expect him to act according their code of conduct, where thanks are not spoken, but shown. He will thank them by giving his best as their captain, and they will accept nothing more, nothing less.

(The two officers will report to Commander Uhura that the captain returned to his room. There were no incidents. She will thank them, then abandon her attempts to get any sleep and reread the diplomatic briefs. She will remember nights when Spock would come to her room while Jim was asleep and they would go over details together.)

Jim will wake up exhausted but determined. Nyota will already be awake and silently hand him a cup of black coffee. She will not ask how his night was and he will do the same. They will eat breakfast together and go over the finer points of the desired treaty. They will change into dress uniforms and meet the Chief punctually. They will be a fierce team.

Starfleet will get their miracle. The Chief will feel a strange camaraderie with this captain, even though he finds he disagrees with almost every proposal the captain puts forward. Lt. Camille and Lt. Lottorenz will pretend they saw nothing. The Commander will grit her teeth through a headache. The captain will do his job.

And Jim will still miss Spock.


	25. Second Summer, 3

"I grieve with thee."

That's what Vulcans say to each other.

When he first heard the phrase, Jim thought it was a little over-the-top, or that the words had been lost in translation. Because grieve? It didn't sound colloquial, not like the typical "I'm sorry for your loss" exchanged among humans. The words didn't lend themselves to an easy rhythm—no one could say something like that lightly. Every syllable was dead weight, even and heavy, with nothing to break up the stark gravity of the sentence.

And every Vulcan said it with such a straight face, their expression wooden. Their bodies would be ramrod straight, movements careful and deliberate. The first time Jim heard them exchange the phrase with each other, he thought they would choke on the words. The discrepancy between the emotionally charged meaning and the impassive delivery threw him off.

That first time was during the _Narada_. Jim was kind of preoccupied with other things, like finding a way to stop Nero from wreaking more havoc on the universe. He had seen Spock on the transporter pad, hand outstretched. He had watched Vulcan disintegrate and disappear. Jim even heard bits and pieces of Vulcan floating in Sickbay while Bones and his team checked over the Elders. Actually, the whole memory has a dreamlike quality to it, because in the middle of the chaos he remembers those four words so clearly.

"I grieve with thee."

In Standard, weirdly enough. Yet spoken in low, almost intimate tones. As though they wanted their grief to be heard and not heard, seen and not seen. Maybe on some level they wanted others to understand, though no one could ever fully grasp that kind of loss.

All these thoughts didn't occur to him until much later. Earth, Nero, Pike—those were his priorities. Vulcan was gone so leave the dead behind they'd get back to them later, focus on that mining ship still out for the kill. He experienced it from insane moment to insane moment.

Jim had seen and he had heard, but he hadn't really listened.

But that was okay and perhaps more importantly, it wasn't his fault. If he had gotten caught up in the true meaning of it, he would've been paralyzed by the sheer magnitude. That Spock had seen, heard, lost, and still soldiered on—Jim has no words for that. Perhaps there are none.

"I grieve with thee."

The next dozens of times he ever heard those words, they always came from Spock. Jim heard him say it to crewmembers after funeral services. It didn't matter if the service was public or private, Spock would go up to them and offer those words in that low tone. The reactions varied. Some crewmembers, still struggling to come to terms with it all, would rage at Spock and tell him that he had no idea what those words meant. Others were startled, eyes wide and mouths open, as though they were surprised their commander would ever even acknowledge the existence of emotions. Still others would break down and sob unabashedly in front of their commander.

No matter how anyone took his words, he always offered them. He stood straight and tall, expression closed, eyes full of an emotion Jim recognized but never bothered to name. Voice pitched low. Spock meant it, every word, every single time.

Which, at the beginning of their service together, had struck Jim as strange. Spock had trouble relating to some of the more emotional crewmembers that served on the _Enterprise_. He would say things sometimes that—unfeeling didn't even begin to cover it. Bones complained about Spock's "cold-blooded logic" a lot, mostly because the two of them mixed like oil and vinegar. That didn't mean there weren't times when those complaints were legit.

But when it came to funerals? Spock had no problem reaching out. Jim wouldn't say that he'd open up and become more emotional. He definitely didn't comfort anyone, not the way humans think of comfort. It was more like Spock found a point of commonality, a meeting place where he could stand next to a person.

Death can do that. It can remove barriers, get past seemingly insuperable differences, bring people together. It can have them stand in the same room in complete silence, with the sense that everything's already been spoken. Jim's seen it again and again.

Even with Bones and Spock.

Jim kind of wonders if that's where their friendship got started, standing on opposite sides of his biobed after the latest near death escapade.

Now, if he ever has one of those again—who's he kidding, there's no doubt he will—it won't be Bones and Spock he wakes up to. It'll be—

It might be his whole crew.

That realization. Before Spock died, he would've brushed it off. Their display would've been endearing but annoying, and Jim would protest that it was a necessary risk that came with his job. Buried underneath was the semi-infantile complaint that he was a starship captain and could take care of himself. After all, he had toned down a lot since he started out and didn't make so many impetuous decisions. He took precautions. He trained constantly with the Security Department. Over the years, he'd gotten a fair amount of experience under his belt. They just needed to chill out.

That was before.

Everything's different now. He understands that their worry doesn't entirely stem from a mother hen instinct. Some of it, but not all. If he has another brush with death, his whole crew will gather around his biobed because they don't want to lose him. Not after Spock. Not after that gut wrenching trauma. It's the second summer, and their group still hasn't really recovered from getting shot in the heart.

If Jim died.

He's not going to. He's not going to leave them. And even if he does, they'll move on. They'll recover and keep going.

Something deep inside him shifts. That kind of logic doesn't compute anymore. He thought Spock would never die, yet here they are. Spock dead. He thought Spock would never leave him. And here he is, alone. As for moving on, he'd never considered how hard and tiring and confusing and crappy this whole grief situation was. Jim has no doubt that if he dies, his crew will soldier on. They're strong.

But there's a definite cost, and Jim doesn't want them to pay it because he was careless or stupid. He doesn't want them to feel everything he's been feeling, everything they're still feeling, all over again. Jim's their captain but more than that, they're his friends. That takes on a whole new meaning, with the death of Spock. Because—and this sounds so trite, but it's true—he wants them to be happy. Laugh. Smile again. There hasn't been much laughter lately.

"I grieve with thee."

He finally feels those words. He finally understands the look in Bones' and Spock's eyes when he woke, spoke, smiled, got up again. He finally accepts the fact that his crew worry about him and care for his life and well being for what it is, not what he thought it to be.

Has he been ignorantly selfish this whole time?

However, there are other factors to take into account. Jim is the captain of the _Enterprise_. His job comes with legitimate, unavoidable risks. He's not going to run from death because he wants to spare others the pain of the aftermath. Sometimes, it's necessary to take that chance. Other times, it's not. Jim's going to learn to balance between those two priorities. He resolves to reexamine his criteria on what's an acceptable risk, and what's not. He'll do his job, perform his duty to the utmost. But stupidity is no excuse for leaving others behind.

"I grieve with thee."

The last time he heard those words was at Spock's funeral.

Jim went through that time, the three funerals, the transmissions, everything, completely numb. Nothing had sunk in. In a lot of ways, it's comparable to the first time he heard the Vulcans say it, only instead of time moving incredibly fast, it was like swimming through molasses. Everything about those memories are like a dream, and in the middle of that daze are those four words.

In Standard, spoken in low tones. To him, after the funeral service. Standing tall, expression closed, eyes full of emotion.

In the haze, those words cut through and Jim _listened_.

And finally understood, in way he never wanted to understand but had absolutely no choice, that Vulcans know exactly what they're saying.

"I grieve with thee."


	26. Second Summer, 4

"How's everything been lately?"

Jim shrugs.

"Okay. No attacks. I think they're over for good now."

"Keep those hyposprays nearby just in case. I'm still monitoring your condition."

Jim nods. He remembers his question.

"How's Nyota?"

Bones frowns.

"Why're you asking me?"

"I want to know how she's doing. She keeps getting headaches."

The doctor looks at him intently, like he hadn't expected that to come out of Jim's mouth.

"You thought I wouldn't notice?"

"Want me to be honest?"

"Yeah."

A pause.

"Look, I might not be the most observant person—that was Spock—but I know something's up. And I know she just grits her teeth and goes through her shift without saying anything to anyone."

Still no reply.

"If this is about doctor-patient confidentiality, I can make it a command concern. She wants to do her duty, but that doesn't help me if she's not in top form. Sooner or later, it'll become a liability."

Bones watches Jim like he's evaluating him. He seems to come to a decision about something.

"This is off the record."

"Fine."

"She hasn't been sleeping well lately."

There's more. It's all over Bones' face. Jim goes for the easier question first.

"You don't have any meds?"

"Aint something that can be fixed with a pill, Jim."

Shit.

"Tell me," he demands. "Does she need time off? Have I been pushing her too fast?"

Bones nods.

"It wouldn't hurt to ease up on her for a little while. Nyota's been taking everything as hard as you, and she got the added stress of all her new responsibilities."

"Got it. I'll see what I can do."

It won't be easy, but he's already moving the roster around in his head to give his commander some time.

There's that expression. Bones is still holding back.

"Tell me."

"You sure you want to know?"

It's not really a question.

"Yeah," Jim steels himself. "Yeah, I want to know."

The silence and Bones' gaze are getting to him.

"Fuck Bones, I won't break. Whatever it is, I can handle it."

His best friend snorts, a wry smile on his face.

"Hell forbid that James T. Kirk can't handle anything the goddamn universe throws at him."

There's an edge to the words that catches Jim off balance.

"What?"

Silence. Then, something snaps.

"What do you want me to say, Jim? That she feels like she'll never measure up to Spock? That sometimes she's terrified that she'll fail in the line of duty? That she and Scotty are having a hell of a time adjusting, summer be damned?

"Nyota's a strong woman, but she was never interested in getting into command track until you and Spock started training her up. Now she's feeling the exact weight of all the goddamn responsibility that falls on her and don't get me wrong—most of the time, she manages beautifully. You couldn't've chosen a better First to take Spock's place.

"But it gets to her, Jim. It'd get to anyone, being promoted like that. Add to it all the fact that that her best friend of I don't know how many years died? We hardly got any time to catch our goddamn breaths before Starfleet started sending us out on heavy duty missions again."

A pause.

Jim waits.

Bones looks away from him.

"And, in the middle of it all, your heart gave out on us."

For some reason, hearing that's like a punch to the gut.

Bones closes his eyes, standing there as if he's gone back to that first moment when Jim fell out of the command chair, clutching his heart, gasping for breath. Then he seems to gather himself and shake the memory off. His voice is quiet and low.

"I'm telling this to you now because you're showing definite signs of recovery. But for a while, we were all holding our breaths, watching you simultaneously fall apart and keep yourself together," Bones inhales sharply. "And no one knew how to reach you."

There's a deep pain in his best friend's voice that makes Jim's chest tighten.

He looks. The muscles of Bones' jaw are tense. There's a sheen of moisture in his eyes.

In the reflection of his grief, Jim can see his crew. He can see their fear that he wouldn't survive Spock's death, that in one way or another, he would leave them to follow the trail of Spock's dark heart.

They tried, as best as they could, to stand by him and help him through the worst of it, to be the steady presence he needed. They knew they could never fill Spock's place, that they would fall short every time. But they gave—they were still giving—everything they had, despite the fact that they were hurting as much as he was.

Grief, as much as it brought them together, almost shattered them. The knowledge of that stabs at him, but he pushes it aside. There's only one real way to make up for it.

"How're you holding up?" Jim asks.

Silence.

"I'm holding up, Jim," a pause. "I'm holding up. I've been better, and I've been worse too."

Bones looks him straight in the eyes. The tears are still lurking, but they don't fall.

"We understood, Jim. You needed time, you lost a bondmate. It's hell on Vulcans—it's hell on humans. Aint nothing easy about it for anyone."

Jim doesn't reply. He and Bones fall into silence.

Bones knows about the pain of separation. Not the same kind as Jim's feeling now, but it's still a separation. From what he knows, the divorce was vicious. It left pock marks on his best friend's heart.

And, Jim reminds himself, Bones and Spock were close friends too. They had a strange dynamic, almost like a rivalry between brothers, but there was no doubt that they would die for each other.

Another separation.

The death of Spock has been separating everyone, splintering them. Like this silence they've been sitting in.

Fuck it. It's time he change that.

"You know, we never play cards together anymore."

Bones gives him a look.

"Cards, Jim? Sometimes I wonder what on God's green earth is going through that brain of yours."

"Good luck figuring it out," he grins. "Spock tried, then swore he'd never try again."

"Why'm I not surprised."

Jim laughs, the sound full and free. None of this is particularly funny. Doesn't matter. He laughs because he can.

Bones looks really amused.

"So, you got a free shift sometime?"

"You bet your sorry ass I do."

"I'll grab a space at the Rec Room, just the seven of us."

"Want me to bring anything?"

"If you want. Tell Chris, yeah?"

"Sure thing, Jim."

"Great. I'll send a message around when I get the rosters figured out."

He moves to leave. Bones stops him, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"Jim."

His best friend's got a smile on his face, a light in his eyes.

It's fucking good to see.

And it'll be good to hang out with the crew again, even if it's going to be painful. The tension, the awkwardness, the uncertainty—

Bones searches his face. Jim doesn't hide from the question in his eyes.

Because this first round is going to be harsh. Memories will come up. He's creating a setup for emotional compromise and in the process, he's going to majorly compromise himself. Get ripped wide all over again.

That scares the shit out of him. But he'll do it anyway because it's necessary. Because this limbo they're in, this fragmentation that happened after death took everyone out of commission, really sucks. They need to move past the loss, reestablish the balance in the group, find another dynamic.

Jim's going to put it in motion. Why? Because he might be the only one who _can_ do it. Spock was Jim's center, but Jim's the reason why the seven of them all came together in the first place.

So he's doing this. The decision's made.

Bones nods.

"Thanks."

Jim has no idea what Bones saw in his face and he doesn't ask. He smiles and shrugs.

"No problem."


	27. Second Summer, 5

Pavel and Sulu are the first ones there. They lounge around the card table just like they used to. When Jim walks over, they freeze up a little, but he keeps acting like there's nothing unusual about this. For now. It'll be different when all seven of them are at the table.

"Sulu," Jim tosses him a deck of cards.

His Lt. Commander catches it by pure reflex.

"What're we playing?"

"Poker."

"We already know what _you_ want to play, Pasha. It's redundant to keep saying it. And no, I'm not playing poker against you."

"We haf not played poker in ages! I will split the winnings with you."

Sulu looks like he's seriously reconsidering.

Jim laughs.

"Let's wait till the others get here and put it to a vote."

With Spock gone—he didn't particularly care for poker—the whole voting dynamic could change.

Why does every single fucking thing have to be effected by Spock's death?

By the look on Chekov's face, Jim knows he's thinking the same thing. His lieutenant tries to hide the expression.

"Hey," Jim nudges. "It's okay. We've got a fighting chance of winning the vote, depending on what Chris decides. I think Scotty's been looking to play Texas hold 'em for a while."

Pavel just nods.

It'll have to do for now.

Chris comes in with two pizzas. She's smiling widely.

"Pepperoni and mushroom, our all time favorites."

"You didn't decide to get creative with the mushrooms, did you?" Sulu looks at her dubiously.

She shakes her head.

"Just plain old mushrooms, not like last time."

Jim takes a slice of mushroom, folds it in half lengthwise, and wolfs it down. All of these emotions are making him hungry.

Chris laughs watching him. Sulu shakes his head and opts for the pepperoni.

"So, Chris," Jim says between bites. "What'd'you think of poker?"

"I'd be up for a game. That or blackjack."

"No way. You'd pwn us all at blackjack. I'm not looking to get cleaned out tonight."

"I am telling you, Sulu, I will split winnings."

"Oh, is that how business is done around here?" Christine asks, mischievous look in her eye.

"I'm surrounded by card sharks."

"Damn straight Sulu. Where's the pizza?" Bones joins them. "Chris, these mushrooms—"

"Are the normal variety, no funny business about them."

Bones gives her a look.

"Portobello. I even gave you the name. And Jim's already chowing down on his second slice."

"Chris, I never judge what's safe to eat by what Jim's putting in his mouth."

"Point," Sulu says.

Jim grins. Well, they do have a point. And they've set themselves up beautifully for an innuendo that normally, Jim would go for, if only to see Bones' face turn red and Spock's tinge a slight shade of green.

He doesn't. For obvious reasons. Instead, he changes the subject.

"Where're Nyota and Scotty?"

"Technically Nyota's still on shift, I think. Scotty's probably needling her to leave the bridge early."

"She's too damn punctual."

"She picked it up from Spock." The words slip out of Jim's mouth before he thinks about what he's saying.

A pause.

"Actually," Christine says, voice smooth. "I think it's because she was on the Academy's track team. She had to have a regimented life to juggle school and training."

"Tell that to this one," Bones rolls his eyes at Jim. "I swear, he took on more classes and did more extracurriculars than there were hours in the day."

"It was fun! I was having a blast—you know that."

"Almost failed some of your classes too. How'd the admirals like that on your transcript?"

"You almost failed classes, keptan?" Chekov sounds very intrigued.

"Because I never showed up to half of them. There was one that I went to the first class, decided it was bullshit, sat for the tests, and did nothing else. They wanted to flunk me for not going to sections."

Doesn't mention the whole _Kobayashi Maru_, face-off with Spock at academic hearings thing. He almost did flunk Xenolinguistics.

"Which class?"

Jim shrugs, the motion practiced.

"I don't remember. Seriously. It was years ago."

"You make us all sound ancient, Jim."

"You _are_ ancient, Bones."

"I'm not even close to fifty, so don't start calling me old."

"Since when was fifty old? You guys are really ageist, you know that?" Nyota asks. "And hi. Sorry I'm late."

"No prob. Want some pizza?" Sulu pushes the box towards Nyota and Scotty.

"Thanks."

Scotty eyes the mushroom pizza, then goes for the pepperoni. He's tearing through the slice and chewing when he asks

"What're we up for?"

"Scotty, that's gross," Jim says.

"You're one to talk," Nyota retorts. "I remember you at the Academy. You tried to chat up one of my girlfriends with your mouth full."

"I was younger. You and Spock hadn't done an Etiquette 101 course with me."

"Some things are common sense, Jim. Not that you've ever had any."

"Never a truer word spoken, doctor," Scotty agrees.

"Hey! Spock thought I was all right."

Is it a bad thing that he doesn't think anymore about using past tense?

Bones snorts, but doesn't say anything else. Jim can see that everyone had a retort on the tip of their tongue along the lines of "Spock was crazy" or "Spock had an unfortunate lapse in logic" or "Spock loves—loved you." They don't say anything.

Scotty clears his throat.

"But, question still stands. What're we up for?"

"Poker," Chekov says immediately.

"Now, that goes without saying for you, doesn't it? I meant everyone else."

"Not poker."

"Nothing's changed," Scotty shakes his head, smiling.

Before anyone can remember that everything's changed, Jim adds his two cents.

"I'm up for poker. Texas hold 'em."

"Three-one for poker, including my vote. Nyota?" Christine asks.

"I don't really have a preference. Whatever's fine."

"Leonard?"

"Poker, but Omaha."

"Four for poker. That's the majority."

"You're not even going to bother asking for my vote?" Scotty, mock offended. "I could throw the whole vote."

"Four votes is four votes, Scotty," Sulu says, disgusted by that fact. "If we're going to play poker, I want five card draw."

"_Nyet_. Texas hold 'em or Omaha, that is my wote."

"Two for Texas with my vote, one for Omaha, one for five card, one floating. Scotty? You can determine something here."

"Put me with Omaha."

"Woah. Making waves there Scotty," Jim laughs. "Nyota? Want to be the tiebreaker?"

"Or the tie-maker," Bones says.

"I'm going for Texas hold 'em."

"I just can't win. Can't win at anything!" Sulu throws his hands up. "Pasha, are we still splitting winnings?"

"_Nyet._"

"What?"

"It is called _dat vyatki_—bribing. You are familiar with it. I was trying to buy your wote, but you were not woting for poker."

Sulu flicks Chekov off, who just grins.

They settle in their usual places around the table when they realize that someone set up eight chairs. The spot between Jim and Nyota is empty.

It's the small things.

Jim goes on instinct. Maybe it's because he's desperate to not let awkwardness dominate. Deep inside, he feels like hurt is blooming and rearing up and he wants someone else to do something about the tension in the room. But Jim goes on instinct, kicks the chair out, and puts his feet up.

"Deal."

Sulu deals.

Nyota looks at Jim's feet, then at him. She's got an inscrutable expression on her face, like she can't figure out what Jim's doing or why he's suddenly reverting to acting like a semi-asshole.

"What?" It comes out as a challenge.

"Nothing."

"Good."

Beside him, Bones exhales.

"Jesus Christ, Jim. Relax. You don't have to act like Spock's the elephant in the room."

"Leonard," Chris warns.

"No. This thing's been hanging around our necks like a goddamn albatross."

"No subtlety," Nyota shakes her head.

"I aint someone who skirts around things, Nyota."

"It takes time, Leonard."

"Chris, you keep saying that like it's got all the answers."

"It's the only answer we'll ever have," her voice is suddenly harsh.

"Guys, hate to break this to you, but does anyone have poker chips?"

Everyone stares at Sulu.

"We don't have any," he points to the table. "Can't play poker without poker chips."

"Hold on one minute. I'll run and get some," Scotty says.

When he returns it's not poker chips he has, but

"Washers?"

"I couldn't find the set I thought I had. Probably lost it in the rubbish. But these'll do very well, they get the job done."

He distributes the washers around.

"How are they being worth?" Chekov fiddles with a washer in his hand.

"Ten credits?"

"Christ Scotty, I'm a doctor, not a billionaire!"

"We could put caps."

"Let's start out with each one of these is worth two, ante is four, and we've got a twenty/forty limit. Sound good?" Chris says.

"That's too low," Scotty complains.

"Sulu'll be bleeding credits if we go any higher."

"Hey, I'm not _that_ bad at poker, Jim."

"_Da nyet_, you kind of are."

"Shut up, Pasha. All right guys, we've got this settled? Ante up."

The elephant kind of stays, kind of dissolves.

Chris is right. It takes time.


	28. Second Summer, 6

In dreams, Jim is with Spock.

Since the first summer, the block on his memories seems to have lifted and Jim finds himself reliving parts of life with Spock. The dreams aren't exact replications. There are always things that're slightly off, things that remind him it's a dream. Physics doesn't work like it's supposed to, or time jumps. One moment, Jim's reliving a date with Spock early in their relationship, the next moment he's on an away mission with Spock trying to figure out how to get out of the building that's just caved in.

Not all of the memories are happy. It was a relationship between two very strong personalities who could not be more different from each other. They had disagreements, fights, their own problems and tensions. Jim sometimes finds himself in the middle of a particularly ugly debate, where Spock is dressing him down in the privacy of their quarters, telling Jim the fifteen ways his most recent decision to disregard Protocol 14B subclause R was poorly made and unsound. Spock never unleashed the full extent of his scathing logic when they were in front of the general crew. That was specially reserved for the two of them.

Or their positions are reversed, and he's letting Spock know exactly how frustrating it is to be in a relationship with a Vulcan, how the emotional suppression sometimes does come off as cold and calloused even though Jim knows it's not, how sometimes Jim needs more emotionally than Spock's able to give and how that hurts him. These dreams don't bring back the exact dialog as much as they amplify the emotions he and Spock were feeling, going at each other like that. And the dreams cut out at the weirdest moments, taking Jim through an emotional blender even in his sleep. Half the time when he wakes, he doesn't feel well rested at all. He feels—and looks—like shit.

Then there are those dreams where that's not how it happened at all. It what Jim wishes happened, what Jim wishes he said, what he wishes Spock did. They replay his regrets, but they also show him thing he'll never have. The hopes that he and Spock had for their future unfold before him like an elusive flying carpet and suddenly he's in Iowa, on the farm, tacking up a horse. Spock's right beside him, telling Jim that he's going to join him later.

They're on Vulcan II in Spock's rebuilt ancestral home. Jim's sitting in a chair, looking over a news datapad and telling Spock about the recent developments in the FedCouncil while Spock's preparing for his latest diplomatic mission. The details get to him—Jim's sitting legs crossed, wearing glasses. Spock's got wrinkles on that angular face of his. He's dressed in black Vulcan robes.

He has no control over these dreams, the sequence that they replay his memories, how long he gets to stay in a particular moment. He finds himself wanting to linger, go back, fast forward but the only thing he can do is watch and re-experience things in a warped way, like living in a tunnel or being bent out of shape through the emotional fabric. With Spock, maybe he could've taken hold, reasserted control over his subconscious. There were several time that Jim slept, trapped in the most hellish nightmares and then Spock would be there, delicately maneuvering through the emotion mixed with memory shot with terror, untangling the mess for Jim and making it comprehensible. Through the bond, Spock could remind Jim that it was all a dream, a reconstruction created by his mind that released and expressed his concealed fears. Spock didn't stop the nightmares outright. He thought, and psychology agreed, that it would be unhealthy to create some kind of block on this natural mechanism Jim used to process some uglier past realities. But he was always there, a steady presence, ready and willing to help. And Jim felt safe. He thought he'd feel weak or helpless when Spock found out, but there was none of that.

Now, it's not nightmares, but sometimes it feels just as bad. Because Spock's not there reminding him it's just a dream. Jim wakes, Jim sleeps, no matter what state he's in he always knows it's just a dream. Spock doesn't need to tell him because that's what his mind is dealing with. The feeling—not knowledge, but feeling—of Spock's death sinks in deep into the folds of his brain and it pervades everything. Is soaked in each memory, permeates all dreams. Jim used to feel that that sleep was the only place he could escape reality. Even that luxury is stripped from him. He dreads sleep because he will be met with Spock resurrected in memory, he dreads waking because he will be met with no Spock at all.

Sometimes, Jim pleads with Spock to leave him alone and stop haunting him. Stop hunting down all the memories that remind him exactly what he's missing, stop forcing him to process things. He doesn't want to process. He just wants—but he doesn't want to forget. Does he actually know what he wants? He wants Spock alive, but Spock's dead. Spock perfectly preserved in memory? Spock reborn in his mind? Spock at peace in his psyche? What the fuck does Jim want?

Please, leave me alone. Please, don't leave me.

War. Grief is war. War between living and dying, war between remembering and forgetting. As in all wars, there are casualties, namely Jim. Torn in half, torn by these two poles.

As in all wars, there is a middle ground.

Because between these dream memories nightmare fantasies, there are clear dreams of Jim, Spock and the crew together, in their element, taking down Klingons or investigating some scientific phenomenon. It is not a full episode—it sometimes feels like a snapshot, but they are there. They make him feel not whole, but not torn either.

In dreams, Jim is with Spock.

And he tells him over and over, every chance he gets, every time he remembers—

"I love you."


	29. Second Summer, 7

The starbase they're on gets hit with a huge snowstorm.

Jim, never a heavy sleeper, wakes up to the sight of flakes piling up on his window. He absently reaches beside him to nudge Spock, then remembers. His hands lands uselessly on the sheets. There wouldn't've been room for the two of them anyway. Starbase beds are a pain.

He shakes his head to try and clear his head. Murky thoughts made of remnants of dreams, half remembered memories, bizarre associations slosh around. He wants more sleep, but he's not going to get any. Resigned, Jim goes to the fresher. Might as well get some work done.

Three cups of coffee and fourteen reports later, Sulu and Chekov come into his room without the courtesy of a chime. They've both got handfuls of snow.

Jim gives them a look eerily reminiscent of Spock.

"Damn," Sulu looks at Chekov, then Jim. Then the melting snow in his hand. He looks like he's been outside—his cheeks are pink and ears turning red.

"What're you guys doing?"

"We were going to wake you up."

"With a snowball?"

"That was being the idea at the time, keptan."

He doesn't really have an answer to that.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Sulu offered.

"And now?"

His two officers looked at each other.

Jim's not stupid. He propels himself out of his chair and dodges sideways. Chekov's wet snowball grazes him in the shoulder—apparently manning the transporter in emergency situations has done something for anticipating unexpected movements—but Sulu's gets him on the side of his neck. Damn.

Sulu's laughing as he offers a hand and helps Jim up. This calls for some payback.

"There's a huge _Enterprise_ snowball fight going on outside. You should come."

Jim wipes off the side of his neck. That was cold.

"Every man for himself?"

"Right now, yes. We could get organized according to departments though."

"Is Bones up?"

Chekov shrugged. "You know he is in the morning."

"Yeah."

"He will be joining later, probably. After grits and coffee."

Jim smiles. He goes to the closet for some regulation snow gear. He dresses pretty quick—the habit's drilled into him after responding to so many emergencies in the middle of what should've been his sleep cycle. At one point, Jim almost didn't bother to change out of his uniform. Spock was quietly amused by that.

While he's pulling on his boots, Jim smirks at Chekov and Sulu.

"You know you guys're dead, right?"

"Bring it, captain."

It's a fucking throw down.

When Jim gets to the sprawling scene of the fight, he pauses to survey the action. Almost all of the people hurling snowbits at each other are _Enterprise_. There are crowds hovering at the sides, base personnel who are looking at his crew like they're crazy. They probably are. Serving under James T. Kirk takes a special breed of person—Spock once wryly commented that it takes a special breed of sentience as well. By way of answer, Jim only gave him a look. It took an absolutely unique breed to make him fall in love so completely too.

The people on the sidelines seem to notice the presence of the captain and it's clear that they expect him to stop the nonsense. Really, they should know better.

He steps into the fray, crosses the invisible border, and immediately gets smacked in the back by a snowball. Jim hones in on the direction and sees Scotty grinning like the Cheshire cat. That moment, Jim forgets everything about duty and death and explaining things to the base commander later. He's packing snow and thinking strategy.

The cold air filling his lungs, dodging whizzing snow projectiles—some of his security guys can throw really fast—the rhythm he gets into, zeroing in on his targets, rounding up his right arm back, left leg up, extending the elbow, swinging his arm around like a whip and releasing, recalling the motions back when he was a kid throwing a baseball with his brother. It's all muscle memory.

\\Spock, after the bond, marveled at Jim's ability to submerge himself and most of his thought processes so completely in motion. Spock saw, accounted, and analyzed the crap out of everything because he could and his Vulcan brain could handle it. Everything happened right there in his consciousness. Jim's the opposite. When the ship's on red alert, when he's fighting man to man, when shit is going down, he's not a good captain because he can think faster than the enemy. He comes out on top because he can act faster.

Bull's eye. He gets Sulu in a beautiful chest shot. Jim's got a vague idea that the security guys are trying to pin him down, but hell if he lets that happen.

\\Part of that remarkable reaction time is because of genetics, but a lot of it is training. It's habit, beat into the circuitry of his neurons over and over again, the pathways reinforced and tweaked with each use. The rest of his mind is free to intuit, to reach back and find patterns or memories he doesn't consciously know he has, notice details that he sees but could never explain. His brain does all of that in the background, spits out an answer that's translated into inexplicable actions, unorthodox strategies, and the thing that everyone sees—victory.

Nyota's getting snow thrown all over her by Scotty. They're laughing, Scotty chases her around and it's so idyllic that Jim would look away if he didn't know all the shit they've been struggling through. He gets a faceful of snow—never forget your surroundings.

\\Spock loved the way Jim's mind worked. He couldn't get enough of it. And he knew how to use it. During red alerts, Jim could feel Spock opening the bond up wider and feeding information directly into the centers of his decision making mechanism, integrating Vulcan processing power and a fucking library of knowledge to Jim's programming. It felt like an entire world opening up, like parallel computing at its best.

Running, running, tackling Bones to the ground because the idiot's standing on the sidelines, looking smug like the rest of them are immature kids. Bones is sputtering and yelling that Jim's crazy, but Jim's already pelting him with snowballs.

\\In the midst of the chaos of snow brawling Jim feels his mind reaching, like it has so many times since Spock's death, for that connection. The bond was reciprocal. Once Spock taught Jim how to use it, he did the same, inputting data for Spock to take a look at. The first summer, it felt like his heart was calling for its other half. Now, it's almost like his mind is sending packets for Spock to process, only to come back with an error message.

The shock when it's Christine who leads the assault on Jim and suddenly he's the center of the battle. His security guys jump to his defense and launch a counterattack, everyone takes sides until the friendly fire gets so intense that it's a throw down again.

\\It doesn't come as a shock, but at the same time it does. Jim's used to that feeling now, the way that Spock's absence is discovered by his brain and body over and over and over again.

He's lost a lot. Not everything. A fucking lot. But not everything.

Things wind down on. Groups go off to get food—everyone's starving.

"Anyone else want hot chocolate? Jim?" Christine asks.

"No thanks, I'm covered," he raises his glass of tea.

Another legacy of Spock.

"Leonard?"

"I hate you."

"I heard you the first seventy times, Bones."

"I'll be back then," Chris leaves.

"Y'all are idiots."

"So what's our next mission, Jim?" Sulu asks.

Bones has been in a weird mood all morning.

"Nyota? Have we gotten any transmissions yet?"

"I haven't had the chance to talk to Communications, sir. Orders probably haven't come yet."

"It is probably a science mission. I haf been reading journals on the nets—they are all wery excited about recent dewelopments in Sagittarius A*."

"I think that _Potemkin_'s already got that mission, Pavel. At least, that's what I've heard through the engineering grapevine. The preps they have to do for that mission're a nightmare, believe you me."

Chris comes back with hot chocolate and coffee for Bones. He takes it with a grunt.

"All right, what's up," Jim demands.

"What's what. I hate mornings."

"It's 1400 local."

"Jim," Nyota warns.

"What? It was fun. The snowball fight was fun. Best thing we've done in a long fucking time. Who started it?"

"I suppose I'll have take responsibility for it. It was kind of a spontaneous gathering with me and the lads of engineering."

"Come _on_, Bones. Get out of this funk."

"What, I'm not allowed to have a bad day?"

"We're on shore leave."

"On a starbase, Jim."

"He's got a point there," Scotty nods.

"It's still shore leave," Sulu replies.

"You say it like that's the answer to everything."

"I don't know about answers, but I managed to replicate some decent marshmallows," Christine smiles. "And there's an artificial fire in the lounge."

"Marshmallows?"

"Woah, Pasha, don't tell me you've never roasted marshmallows before."

"I've never roasted marshmallows," Nyota says.

"What? We've got to set this to rights," Scotty says, dead serious.

Jim looks down at his tea. Empty. He's not particularly in the mood, but what the hell.

"I'm going to get some more tea. Anyone want anything? Need anything, Chris?"

"Graham crackers would be great."

"Don't forget the chocolate," Sulu says.

"Right. I'll be back in a few. You guys can start without me."

Bones snorts.

"Just hurry back, Jim. Don't keep us waiting."

Jim stands in a quiet corner of the base. The windows open out into a wide scene overlooking a harbor. It's getting dark outside and the snow's still falling. Jim watches the snow fall into the mottled grey waters, churning and turning the widening gyre.

There's something about watching the grey sky darken, the snow pouring erratically. Fragments of memory, unobtrusive, in the back of his mind like the flash of igniting magnesium. Of Iowa and watching a blizzard settle over cornfields, of the ridiculous situation that was Delta Vega, of missions on glaciers, of Spock's body warm against him in the cold of his quarters, of Spock unable to repress the shivering when the ship's environmental controls went out of whack, of hot feet and kisses like the desert sun, of heat lying beside him, of cold showers when he has erotic dreams of Spock but Spock is gone, of the lost awareness in his mind monitoring Spock's body temperature, the lost feeling of knowing when Spock was uncomfortably cold and clamping down on the sensation, of water seeping through sand at the edge of the ocean leading to a harbor and the snow falling, falling, falling.

He doesn't know how long he stands there. The sky goes from darkened grey to black, the water of the harbor no longer visible except from the occasional glint of light reflecting off the ripples. Eventually, he heads back to the cold dark of his quarters. Without turning the lights on, Jim strips down, raises the temperatures to Spock's preferences, and climbs into bed.

When he wakes, the sheets will be soaked in sweat.

Spock died in the winter.


	30. Second Summer, 8

Up and down and up and down like a fucking sine wave. In a single two-shift round, Jim's emotions will go from being okay and on cruise control to pressing into his guts.

It's the same for his crew.

Jim and Chekov are seated in front of their latest game of go. Pavel's radiating all sorts of tension because some meetings in the Science Department didn't go well, two of their long range sensors broke down which means they need to effect repairs soon, and Sulu's come down with some spacebug. Bones says it's not fatal, but he wants to monitor Sulu's condition. Pavel doesn't take it out on anything though. Just watches Jim put down his black pieces with intense eyes.

As for Jim? Today hasn't been the best day for him either. He just found out that the replicator upgrades they just got aren't upgrades at all. There's a programming error in there somewhere and until Scotty figures it out, everyone on the _Enterprise_ is stuck eating something that looks like grey snot. It's nutritious, it's got all the vitamins and protein and fiber everyone needs. It's also flavorless. He knows, he _knows_ this is going to take a toll on morale because shit like edible food is important. When people face stress and uncertainty on a daily basis, they sure as hell don't want their food to be disgusting or contain another multiplicity of surprises. It seems really small and stupid, but sometimes the small and stupid things make or break people. Spock would analyze it, talking about the psychology of control and human emotions related to eating or something.

Fuck, Jim can't even think straight. That's not what Spock would say at all. It's what Jim's feeling. He's in command of a constitution class starship, can order all this firepower and brainpower to do whatever he needs to get done, but he won't be getting a decent meal for at least three days.

To add insult to injury, he's not playing chess with Spock, but go with Chekov.

The universe? Yeah, it can go fuck itself. Not that it needs Jim's permission. Mostly it seems too busy fucking Jim over to do anything to itself.

The point is, he's trying very hard not to take things out on Chekov. But he can't muster up the energy to talk to Pavel and try to coax him out of his foul mood, not when he's feeling a headache behind his eyes. So they just sit there. Move black and white pieces around the board. People in the rec room keep their distance.

Well, mostly everyone.

"Who died?" Christine comes up.

Neither of them answer that. They don't even look up from the board.

"Who's winning?"

"He is," Jim and Pavel say simultaneously.

They look at each other. Jim can almost feel some of the tension being siphoned off like a physical thing. It's still true though. If this game continues the way it's been going, it's going to end up in a draw. No one's got an advantage in area or positioning.

"Sulu says hi, by the way."

"How is he?" Jim asks absently, fiddling with the black stones in his container.

Pavel's eyes flick over to Jim's hand. He stops. He doesn't want to. The cold stones against his skin, the sound of them clicking together gives him an outlet besides strategy. But it annoys Chekov.

"Nothing that a hypo, some rest, and plenty of fluids won't fix. He'll be right as rain in no time."

"Good. Want to grab a seat or something? You don't have to stand."

"I don't mind if I do."

Jim watches as Christine pulls out some yarn and a hooked needle. She begins wrapping and threading, hooking in and out. It's kind of mesmerizing.

"You knit?"

"Crochet, actually."

"Your turn, keptan."

"Right. Yeah."

His mind wanders from the game, watching her fingers work the soft thread into something braided. The yarns begins to take form, though Jim has no idea what it is.

"What're you making?"

He had an absurd image of her quarters being covered in little things made of yarn.

"Nothing in particular. I crochet little patterns, then unravel everything when I get to the end."

"Keptan." There's an edge of impatience there.

Jim's got half a mind to provoke Chekov out of his emotions. Pavel needs to pummel the shit out of something, or get laid. Something to burst whatever emotions that have been piling up under his skin. In fact, Jim wouldn't mind beating the tar out of a punching bag right now. The sex—he's not going there.

Christine watches, eyes going between Jim and Chekov, her crochet hook keeps moving.

"Yeah, I got it."

He takes a piece and after a few deliberations, puts it down on the board with a sharp click.

Pavel narrows his eyes and very carefully makes his move.

They've got different styles. The Russian genius favors pulling the rug out from under Jim's feet, painstakingly building towards a series of grand moves that leave Jim scrambling not to get totally annihilated on the board. Jim, surprisingly, plays a low key game. There have been times when Pavel underestimated his captain badly, and the look on his face when Jim won—he might as well have been standing on his head doing magic tricks.

Chris has no idea what's going on or how to play, but she doesn't ask any questions. Just watches, yarn twisting.

"Anything new going on in Sickbay?"

"Nothing unusual. Have a few head colds, sinus infections. A case of food poisoning. Leonard's looking into a new procedure for phaser injuries. We're set to debate the pros and cons in a few shifts."

Pavel shakes his head at the mention of departmental meetings and mutters something about _vodka_ and _cigaretki_.

They all deal with shit differently. Jim wouldn't mind a cigarette right now either, not that he was ever a regular smoker. He only got the itch when things were so bad he felt like it was post-Tarsus. Spock understood the craving on principle, but he absolutely hated the smell. The thought of various toxins being dumped into Jim's system like major pollutants freaked him out too.

Huh. Now that Spock's dead, he can smoke and pollute and fuck himself up as much as he wants. The irony of it is, he doesn't want anymore. Not that he actually can. There's still the whole starship captain, responsibilities like a pile of stale protein bars thing.

And he might lose this match. His head's not in the game. Already he can spot four weak points where Chekov could attack and split his territories wide open.

But apparently Pavel's not focused either. Or he's playing conservative, patching holes instead of attacking aggressively.

Chris and that crocheting. Maybe it's soothing for her, but all the coiling and threading is messing with him.

"Keptan, I am going to call a break. It is impossible for me to think right now."

Chekov's got the white pieces. He can do that. It comes as a fucking relief.

"Same here. This board's a mess."

"Christine, is Sulu awake?"

"I think so. He was when I left."

"I will be in Sickbay."

And he leaves.

Christine holds up her yarn. It looks like it's coming along, though Jim doesn't know anything about that stuff. She frowns and counts the knots.

"I missed one."

She puts her finger through a hole way down at the bottom.

"Looks like I'll have to start over."

Jim watches was Christine pulls the yarn and the structure of it just comes apart. It's very methodical, the way she gathers it so it won't tangle together, the material being unloosed rapidly. Pull and pull and pull. It's fucking mesmerizing.

When she's finally done, Jim has a raging headache behind his eyes.


	31. Second Summer, 9

Jim stands in his bathroom, staring at the toilet.

He flushes it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

It's a waste of resources, he knows. He shouldn't be wasting water or power like this. But he just keeps flushing the toilet, watching the water rush. In high school physics, they had learned about the Coriolis effect and how it can have a tiny influence on whether fluid drains clockwise or counterclockwise, depending on the hemisphere you're in. The ship has artificial gravity. Jim got curious if they still have Coriolis effect.

He asked Scotty about it, who immediately debunked that theory. That whole thing about whether toilets flush clockwise or counterclockwise is entirely due to the way that the water enters the bowl, not because of different inertial frames of reference. The idea of the Coriolis effect doesn't even apply to the ship because the artificial gravity is the same on all decks and that gravity isn't generated by the _Enterprise_ spinning on its axis.

Not only that, but toilets on the ship don't work the way toilets planetside do. On a planet, most of the work of draining toilets and pipes is done by gravity, since the tubes lead down to underground sewage systems and the like. On a ship, it's all vacuum systems. The reason why you always close the lid when you flush and never flush while you're on the john, the reason why the flushing sounds like a mini bomb going off in the loo, is because everything's being sucked into the ship's sewage processing system with super efficiency. They have to be careful about water usage on the ship, and this minimizes the amount of water wasted.

Really, Jim should've known better. If he'd thought it through instead of randomly asking Scotty, he'd have worked that out for himself.

But he's still in his bathroom, flushing the toilet over and over, watching the water roar.

There's the sound of it too. The vacuum opening and swallowing everything with a ripping explosion, the water going down the throat of the toilet, vacuum closing, water trickling in to refill the bowl, swirling a little as it pools, the tank refilling. Gurgling and hissing.

If Spock were here, he'd raise an eyebrow and ask Jim, what are you doing?

Flushing the toilet. Jim thought that was obvious. He'd shrug. Spock asked stupid questions sometimes.

Spock would be slightly annoyed by Jim's answer. Well, it's not like Spock didn't take Jim's words literally to bug him. Besides, Jim answered the question. Spock can't complain.

I see. Allow me to rephrase my query.

Sure. Jim's not stopping him. He could never stop Spock from asking another question, let along rephrasing them. Shoot. Doesn't mean he'll answer.

Why are you flushing the toilet?

He expected Spock to ask that. And honestly, he doesn't know. It's kind of fascinating, watching the water go down, listening to the roar of the vacuum. Space is a vacuum. This is the sound of space eating water, piss, and shit.

That thought is more satisfying than it should be.

Spock would probably think that Jim was really weird. Anyone would probably think Jim's really weird, flushing this vacuum toilet with the lid wide open, carrying on a conversation in his head with a dead man.

You are not weird, t'hy'la. Your actions are sometimes incomprehensible and utterly inexplicable according to all principles of logic, but that does not make you an anomaly.

You're just saying that because you love me.

Spock would quirk his lips and say nothing in response. Then,

My question still stands. Why are you flushing the toilet, Jim?

He shrugs. I miss you.

And this is your way of coping with my absence?

You're dead Spock, not absent. Got any better ideas to deal with that?

Jim.

He flushes the toilet again. Rip-pop-explode! Drip-flow-pool.

Jim.

Don't laugh, but it feels like this sometimes. Rip-pop-explode! Drip-flow-pool.

You are comparing grief to flushing a toilet.

Yeah. Don't laugh.

I am not laughing.

Yeah you are. I can feel it.

But actually, he can't, because Spock's dead. Jim flushes the toilet again.

At some point, there's a chime at his door. It's Sulu. Jim looks at the clock. Sulu should be on the bridge.

"Hey, what's up? Anything happen?"

"No."

He looks like he wants to come in. Jim lets him into his quarters. The bulkheads close behind them.

"What's going on?"

"Um, captain, is there something wrong with your bathroom?"

"No. Why?"

"The engineers are worried because they're getting signals that say your toilet keeps flushing itself. It's messing with the sewage system."

"Oh." Damn.

"Just, I thought I should check up on it, you know. If something was screwy."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Everything's cool?"

"Yeah."

"If anything's broken, the engineers'll get right on it."

"Got it, thanks."

"Okay. I guess I'll head back."

"Shift's going smoothly?"

"Nothing to report, sir."

"Good. Let me know if anything else comes up."

"Are you still up for sparring at 0445?"

"Yup."

"I'll see you then, Jim."

Sulu leaves. The bulkheads close.

Jim sits on the edge of his bed. The door to his bathroom's still open, the toilet lid is up.

He starts laughing. Jim laughs and laughs, clutches at his sides because it hurts so much, and the laughing becomes quiet crying. I'm going crazy.

You are not going crazy, t'hy'la.

Oh, but he is.

You are not going crazy. Spock's voice sounds firm.

You're just saying that because you love me.

And again, the silence.

Rip-pop-explode! Drip-flow-pool.


	32. Second Summer, 10

The _Enterprise_ has stopped by on a planet that has been hit with a series of earthquakes. The plate tectonics are arranged such that one major earthquake—which scientists had been predicting would happen for a long time, but never knew actual dates and times—set off a chain reaction of volcanoes, more earthquakes, and tsunamis. It was as bad a natural disaster as Jim has ever seen, and he's seen a bunch now.

He's got teams of security guys organized to do help out on rescue efforts, Bones is planetside with Chris and the rest of the medical staff to help the sick and injured. The scientists are assessing and making reports of the damage. Communications is busy connecting people with their friends and relatives, arranging transport off planet, coordinating to bring in more help. His command officers, natural leaders that they are, help sort through the rubble, clear the ground. Engineers join in the effort to make sure a half collapsed building either stays up or goes down in a safe way. Everyone on the ship helps out. Everyone makes do with four hours of sleep, wolfing down protein bars and chugging black coffee. There's so much to do, not enough time to do it. They know they're going to be called away to another mission because the _Enterprise_ is a military ship, not really meant for rebuilding efforts. So they squeeze every minute for what it's worth.

Spock, in these missions, preferred not to work with the native aliens who were affected. They were often the first Federation response to the scene, so Spock preferred to organize the relief efforts such that when the _Enterprise_ left, someone could easily pick up the reins from there. Not that there was any way to make this kind of mission neat and orderly. If Jim's learned anything about these natural disaster missions, it's that they are, as a rule, messy. Nature not only fucks the lives and land, but makes difficult any attempt at centralizing efforts. Perhaps it's meant to be that way. Things get cleared away, picked up, rebuilt, in spurts, here and there. Jim thinks of the chaos of ants trying to rebuild. They climb all over each other, it seems like nothing's getting done. But it is.

He thinks that the grief is a different quality too. On one hand, grief is grief because death is death, whether it comes as a bullet to the head or caught in a quake. On the other hand, death from natural disasters is massive and widespread. Everyone in the area is affected, everyone knows someone who's been critically injured or killed. Sometimes Jim loses crewmembers during relief efforts. A second tremor hits that tears down the rest of the buildings, an accident happens in the wrecked terrain. Jim makes sure that everyone goes through training to be prepared for these missions, but things happen. Death doesn't stop because the disaster stopped.

This time, Jim's going into the mission with Nyota and Sulu, not Spock. They've already extensively discussed organizational paradigms and what works, what doesn't. Both Nyota and Sulu want to work closer with the people and with the _Enterprise_ rescue teams, instead of taking on this administrative role that Spock created for himself. Jim finds himself in the unenviable position of coordinating all the efforts.

It's way fucking harder than Spock made it look. Way way fucking harder.

First, there's the language part of it. People under severe emotional stress? Yeah, they tend to revert to their native language. Babble in it. Cry, sob. Jim's good at xenolanguages, comparatively speaking. But not that good.

Second, the question of priorities. With a limited amount of time and, let's be honest, resources, where do you concentrate your efforts? Where you do you place you people so that they can make the most impact? His scientists gather reams and reams of data, sends them to Jim practically raw. He's not Spock. He can't sort through it with Vulcan speed and decide that after they extract these people from the rubble, they're moving North where a fire's broken out in a densely populated area, then beaming another group to another part of the planet to help evacuation efforts.

Third, the emotions. Spock went on emotional lock-down on these missions because he could and because it was necessary. When everything's a tragedy, when everyone is suffering, things like _prioritizing_ are inhuman. Pulling most of your teams out of one area to send them to another, even though there're still people—or god help him, children—trapped until the wreckage is a very cold type of mathematics. Spock could do it because he was strong. Jim is doing it because it's his job. He's coping.

Fourth, the emotions. People come up to him and shove babies into his arms, pleading with him to take them to the hospital. He does the best he can, but the Medical Department's always spread too thin, the Sickbay's always overflowing with priority—as in going to die if something doesn't happen soon—patients. Jim doesn't know which is worse, the fact that he can do nothing about it, or the fact that this kind of stuff slows him down, eats into his time when he needs to be looking over data, making decisions, trying to manage parts of the show.

Fifth, the emotions. Natural disasters are ugly, both in the wholesale death and the wholesale destruction. In helping the planet's governments deal with the issues, Jim finds that he spends half his time in polished government offices, talking about Federation aid and logistics, of all things. He wants to be on the ground, he wants to be part of the effort, not looking over it with a detached eye.

Sixth, the emotions. It comes as a relief, it comes as a rend, when they get their next mission assignment. Jim has to tell his people to wrap up whatever they're doing, even if they're in the middle of some critical project. They're moving out. They're leaving things half finished, abandoning these people to their destruction and their grief, with no closure. He doesn't think any natural disaster provides closure, but this. Sometimes it feels like cutting and running, no matter how many times they do it.

What was once impersonal becomes very personal in the process of helping people. His crew are exhausted. They always start out resolved to help and be professional, not to get emotionally invested. But they are, by definition, emotionally invested. They feel torn up by the things they saw. The veterans don't express it, but it haunts their eyes. Bones especially hates it, abandoning patients like that. Dumping them back planetside and never being able to follow up on their condition.

And Jim. Jim stands in limbo. Emotional lockdown, just like Spock. He hates it, the way it's gotten easier to shove his emotions into a closet so that he evaluates this—a natural disaster—in lists and logistics. There's a certain safety to numbness, but there's a certain suffocation too.

Sometimes he wonders if Spock never got involved with helping the people because he never got involved in rebuilding Vulcan. He chose to stay on the _Enterprise_ instead. Jim realizes he never asked Spock about it.

And it suddenly hits him that Spock's decision, as much as it had its rewards, had its costs.


	33. Second Summer, 11

Jim is tired.

He is tired of trying, tired of keeping it together, tired of walking forward. He's tired of being alone, tired of yearning for the presence of another who never should have left him. They were meant to last forever. They were meant to last a lifetime.

He's tired of fighting this, tired of the grief, tired of the supporting and being supported by the crew. All he wants is Spock with him, by his side. It's not about the sex, it was never about the sex. He just wants Spock alive.

He's tired of the way that he goes on planets and they think he's a savior or a symbol. He's tired of the way new recruits look up to him like he's their personal hero, a genius prodigy super-entity who makes the impossible possible. If he could do that, he'd raise the dead. If he could wield the power of gods, he would bring Spock back to him, no apologies, no looking back. He would disregard things like justice and morality, he wouldn't let himself be limited by the rules that ordinary people have to follow. If he were what they think he is, what they project onto him to be, he wouldn't be human. He would have the Milky Way Galaxy prostrate as his feet while he decides on a whim who lives, who dies. If he were that—if he ever let himself become that—Spock wouldn't love him.

Jim is tired. The loneliness gnaws at him, the solitude wraps its iron fingers around him and squeezes his heart. He hates it, he's tired of hating it, he's tired of this cycle. He's tired of the way his emotions can't make up their mind, tired of how they got around in confused circles, spiraling, contracting, expanding, collapsing, folding into themselves and changing for no reason or warning. He thinks he understands why Vulcans repress their emotions, if only because emotions are frustrating and unwieldy. Spock liked to say that they had their own internal logic, but Jim sees nothing logical about these two summers, nothing that cuts through the confusion and gives him answers or solutions. He's not even sure what the question is anymore.

Spock saw him. Spock stood by him. Spock accepted him for who he was. Spock had seen Jim in all his moments, when Jim was stupid or rash or stubborn or arrogant. Times when Jim was an asshole, when he screwed up big time, when he put his foot in his mouth, when he was cruel and malicious. Spock saw the dark things that were inside Jim, all his mistakes and the ten thousand ways that Jim wasn't whole and the fifteen thousand ways Jim was broken. He saw it, loved it, and valued it. Jim was always amazed that Spock managed simultaneously to accept Jim for who he was and also pushed him to be a better man, a stronger captain, this leader and symbol that everyone looks to. With Spock he could bear any responsibility. With Spock he could endure any hardship. With Spock he could believe that the universe was a good place, that despite the rampant cruelty and indifference there could be better days. With Spock he saw beauty in life and loved living it.

Without Spock, Jim doesn't know anything anymore. He keeps going forward, he keeps walking because that's the only thing to do. It's the only option. Without Spock, he feels he doesn't even know what questions are worth asking. Jim is tired of it. He knows that there are days that aren't like this, there are days when things seem almost back to normal. But then there are these days, when he has nothing but the emptiness of his quarters and the loss that aches in his very heart.

He bargains in his head. He bargains with—he doesn't know if it's with time or the universe or Spock or himself. Bargains, saying that if he can get past just another shift, it'll be okay. If he can get through another training routine in the gym, things will get better. If he can endure another mission, there's something to look forward at the end. He has no idea what that is, but it keeps him going despite the exhaustion, despite the loneliness. In the back of his mind, he hopes this isn't what the rest of life is going to be like.

It will pass. He knows this. It passes every time and he's in the land of the living again, eking through the shifts and missions with his crew, collecting small moments when he forgets his grief and smiles. But it's hard to remember that it will pass when he's in it, when the emotions rear up for no good reason and take him out of commission. Jim doesn't know if he should fight it or ride it out. It usually ends up fifty-fifty. Sometimes the energy isn't there to fight it.

Jim is tired. Tired of the quiet in his quarters, tired of the coldness of his sheets, tired of the silence in his dialogs. He bargains with himself and says that Spock is continuing on somewhere, waiting for Jim and watching. That Spock is hurting as much as Jim in this separation, that he longs for the day when they will be together again. That Spock still sees Jim for who he is, values him, just as Jim saw Spock through the reticence and repression and rejection.

Seeing. It haunts him. Because so many don't see him for who he is. They see his image, his list of accomplishments, the history of his past. They see the stories of the _Enterprise_. They see that James T. Kirk is a great man, one who can and has represented the best of humanity to alien delegations and impressed them with the dignity, the pure potential, that sentient life can take. They see in him a remarkable optimism and hope for the future, a genuine compassion, a deep empathy with all living creatures.

But the fucking cost. The fucking cost of exhaustion, loneliness, the burden of responsibility. He has his crew and he couldn't ask for better, he tries every day to give his best and be there for them because he has failed them often, because he has leaned on them and he hadn't even been aware of it. Everyone else doesn't see that. They don't see exactly how much he had to pay, how much he keeps paying, to continue walking forward.

And he'll never tell. Sometimes, giving an interview to the nets or holding a press conference, he wants to tell them everything. In some ways condemn them for expecting the inhuman of him, for painting him as a symbol instead of a person. He never wanted to be the Federation's hope and beacon, he never thought of himself that way and never will. He looks in the mirror and doesn't see whatever they do. He only sees his face in that reflection. Spock should be standing there next to him.

He'll never tell. Jim reads about some of the great leaders of the past and what strikes him most is the isolation they must have felt. The ineffable pressure of responsibility. The intimate friendship they must have had with their aides, like the friendships he has with his core crew.

They'll get through this. He'll get through this. Death took away Spock, and in losing Spock he lost his sight. But Jim will get through this, fighting and dealing with his emotions while fulfilling all his duties because he is alive, because he is a better man than he once was, because Spock loved him. Because Spock still loves him.

In death, Jim discovers the remarkable sustaining power of love. A love that does not defeat grief or exhaustions, but negotiates with it and keeps him and his crew going shift to shift, summer to summer.

Jim is tired, and he keeps going.

[And perhaps that is the reason why people see in Captain James T. Kirk everything they long humanity to be.]


	34. Second Summer, 12

"Commander?"

"Captain."

"What're you doing on duty? I thought I assigned you to beta shift, then rounds with the Communications Department."

"I always take alpha."

"I want you on beta. You—" he stops himself.

Nyota narrows her eyes.

"What."

"Come on. Conference room."

"Captain, whatever you have to say, you can say it on the Bridge."

Her eyes are flashing.

"Conference room. Lt. Lauda, get Lt. Commander Sulu up here."

"Captain—"

"Conference room. That's an order, Commander."

Nyota looks like she wants to beat the shit out of him, but she heads to the turbolift. Jim steps in. He tries to relax his stance and make eye contact, but Nyota is staring straight ahead, jaw clenched.

The lift doors open. Nyota marches out and Jim's got no idea what's gotten into her. He finds an empty conference room and locks the door behind him.

Well, he thinks wryly, at least he's not facing Spock.

Nyota's still holding herself like she might break.

"Okay, now you're starting to scare me. What's going on."

"Why'd you move my shifts?"

"I thought you could use a break. I put too much on you while I was—while things weren't settled, and I don't want to push you too hard."

"You think I can't handle it?" she asks, incredulous.

"That's not what I said, Nyota—"

"You think I'm not professional?"

"What? No—hold on, what's this actually about—"

"Then I can take alpha. Sulu does gamma."

She crosses her arms and dares him to talk back. It reminds him of their Academy days, but this has something uglier underneath.

"Nyota, how much have you been sleeping?"

"Why."

"Answer the question."

"It doesn't matter."

"Do you want me to make that an order, Commander?"

He can almost hear her grinding her teeth.

"Six."

She's lying. He doesn't know how he knows, he just knows. Jim stares at her.

"Fine. Four. And a half."

"How many migraines have you had in the past sixteen shifts?"

"Did Chris tell you this? I swear, I'm going to kill her—"

"Answer the question, Nyota."

"Why's this important."

"You're telling me that as a captain, I shouldn't be concerned about the health of my second in command? Is that really what you're saying?"

"I'm fine. I can handle it."

"I'm not asking you if you can handle it, I'm asking you how many migraines you've had in the past two weeks."

"And I don't have to answer you, by Regulation 46—"

"Shut up."

His heart squeezes, tightens, and for a second Jim can't breathe. He puts his hand over his heart and wills it to relax and start beating again.

"Jim—"

"_Don't_ start quoting regulations at me. Don't. Because I know what Regulation 46B subsection 9 says. I moved your shifts because you look tired, your work isn't up to par. I want you to take a break."

Usually, that kind of direct explanation is enough for Nyota, but this time it's not. She gathers herself like she's about to give him a lecture, like she used to when she and Spock were in perfect accord and Jim and Spock were at perfect odds.

"Take a break? You want me to take a break? Do you know how much work we have to do? How many reports—I'm behind on my mission briefs and reviewing the personnel evaluations—I've still got to talk to the parents of Ensign Shirley and explain to them what their daughter was doing in an earthquake zone under collapsed building—"

"We'll figure it out later. I'll take care of the casualty calls. Delegate your reports to Lt. Volokhonsky and Lt. Nera. I want you to take light shifts for at least two weeks, and you can bet your ass I'll go to Bones and get him to put you on medstat."

"No. No no no I can't delegate any of this. I was right there when Shirley—the building—I can't delegate those reports, and Volokhonsky doesn't even know how to decipher Cortrivian in the second dialect—"

"Nyota, you've got to take a break. You're going to burn out if you keep going like this."

She looks at him. The only thing Jim can think is that she is really pissed off, and he could've started this conversation in a better way.

"Spock didn't."

"Spock was Vulcan."

"Half human."

"Half Vulcan."

"I'm a commander. I'm your first officer of the _Enteprise_ and if I can't carry out my duties—"

"Nyota, you carry out your duties in an exemplary manner. This isn't about your professionalism, this isn't about what you're capable of. You're everything that a captain could want."

"Then I don't need a break."

"You need a break because you're sleeping four hours per cycle, you get headaches, you're emotionally exhausted, you took on too much when I made you first officer and now I'm telling you—I'm _ordering_ you to ease off! Do you need me to give you any more evidence, commander?"

"Ease off? Ease off? You really don't get it, do you? You really don't know what Spock did—how _much_ he did just to keep the ship running. What kind of—how much everyone relied on him—how much of what he did only he knew how to do! You don't remember, do you, when your heart gave out on us and we were scrambling to keep the ship from falling apart! I get it, Jim, you were mourning for him but you don't fucking understand what kind of stress I—_we_—went through to fill Spock's shoes and then keep you on your feet!

"And you're right! You're right! I'm not Spock! I'm _not_ Spock. You don't know how many times I've realized that, and you don't know how much it's cost this ship that I'm not him. Sometimes I feel like I'm trying to live two lives, one as Spock and one as a ghost of myself, missing him so badly that the only way to keep him alive is to do what he did, and do it to the utmost. Because that's what he demanded of himself and that's what he demanded of all of us. He _made_ the _Enterprise_ the ship that it was—the two of you made it look so easy and then he died and you almost followed!

"You want me to ease off? Ease off of what? Ease off of what, Captain? Because this is the only thing that's keeping me going right now and I don't care about the burnout. I'm not Spock, but I don't care about the fucking burnout anymore! He's gone. He's _gone_. And nothing's going to bring him back. Sometimes I think about that planet and their offer and I want to take us back there. I want to take us back there."

Her voice is shaky, her eyes glitter, but she doesn't cry. Suddenly, Jim realizes that she looks so thin and dry, and he wonders how he didn't see this sooner. The answer comes as soon as he asks the question—it's because he was wrapped up in his own grief. He couldn't see, couldn't afford to see anything beyond his own loss. It's only dawning on him now the logistics of what it cost the rest of his crew to keep the ship running while he was running around with a broken heart. Nyota looks so stiff, her fists are clenched just like Spock would've done in the same position.

He goes to her. He wraps his arms around her because he doesn't know what else to do, doesn't know what to say. He can't apologize because as much as it sucked, he doesn't regret the grief that consumed him. He won't thank her not because he's not thankful, but because somehow it feels insulting to her professionalism. It was her job. It was her job to pick up his slack, and she managed it—not beautifully because something like that can never be beautiful—but she managed it all the same. Words seem stupid.

The only thing he does is hold her, briefly, and she doesn't reciprocate. Jim can feel the exhaustion taut in her muscles. She's holding her breath.

He steps back, straightens his shoulders.

"Understood, Commander. However, my concern still stands. I want you to report to Sickbay, have Dr. McCoy send me a copy of the report with his recommendations. We'll discuss shift rotations based on his suggestions and what you feel you're capable of doing. For now, I'll put you back on your old rotation."

"Understood, sir."

She stands at attention.

"Finish your shift—not on bridge. Make your communications rounds. I still want at least half your reports delegated between Volokhonsky and Nera, but only the ones you think they can handle. Report to Sickbay after shift. I'll let Bones know."

"Aye, sir. Anything else, Captain?"

"No."

She's not looking at him anymore, but staring at some point above his left shoulder. Where Spock might stand, if he were there with them. Alive.

"No. That's all. Dismissed."

She turns to leave. A few steps from the door.

"Nyota."

She stops. Doesn't turn around.

"I'm—I'm sorry."

The words are quiet.

"I know," she replies.

A pause. The air between them is heavy with something. Grief. Memory. Exhaustion. He doesn't know. Probably all three.

"I miss him," she says.

"Yeah."

"I miss him so much."

It's a whisper.

Silence.

"Nyota?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"You're not Spock. I never wanted you to try."

Another pause.

"I know I'm not Spock, Jim."

She laughs, the sound bitter and worn.

"But sometimes, I miss him so much that I try."

His heart squeezes.

"You were t'hy'la."

She turns around and looks at him straight in the eye. Jim can't breathe.

"You know what that's like."

He can't breathe.

Nyota walks out of the conference room.

Jim puts his hand to his heart. The other hand to his mouth. Squeezes his eyes shut. And inhales.


	35. Second Summer, 13

Bones has terrible taste in music.

Jim's about to make some kind of flip comment about how lame country music is when he freezes and hears the sax mournful in the background, the voice tinged with sorrow and the South. He walks closer and finds Bones watching the holovid the crew put together for Spock's _Enterprise _funeral.

Bones doesn't even look up from the terminal, just motions for Jim to sit down.

Spock's voice. It's Spock's voice. Warm, a hint of amusement, an edge of worry underneath it all.

"Captain's log, Stardate 6770.3, Commander Spock reporting for Captain Kirk. The captain has found himself in yet another illogical predicament. We have lost contact with the away team, Lt. Uhura is attempting to establish communication through the subspace interference..."

_Got the news on Friday mornin', but a tear I couldn't find  
You showed me how I'm supposed to live and now you showed me how to die_

Jim closes his eyes and he can imagine the expression on Spock's face. The glow in his dark eyes. The exact tint of his skin, his calm and steady breathing. They were already bonded, when that particular mission happened.

_I was lost till Sunday mornin' I woke up to face my fear  
While I'm writing you this goodbye song I found a tear_

He doesn't remember who went through all the security tapes and mission records and put the holovid together. But the vid. The fucking vid. It's sappy and emotional and everything Spock wasn't as a Vulcan, put together for display. Sentimental, it tries to bring all the ordinary and extraordinary things about Spock back to him in a rush and there was a reason why he was avoiding these memories except in dreams. There was a fucking reason because he can't breathe.

_I'm gonna miss that smile_

A clip of Jim and Spock, side by side, looking so young. Jim's rough around the edges, a little beat up. In his eyes, it looks like he's trying too hard to be serious. Spock looks—Spock looks like himself. His body's angled, he looks amazingly human, actually. Their first mission. The _Narada_.

_I'm gonna miss you my friend_

He wants to stop watching. He wants to find the fucker who put this vid together and demote them, write them up for court martial. He wants to punch Bones for starting this in the first place. Grief is surging up again and Jim doesn't want to deal with it.

_Even though it hurts the way it ended up_

Bones just puts a hand on Jim's shoulder and squeezes.

_I'd do it all again_

There are so many images. Spock concentrating at his science station. Spock bent over examining a lab specimen. Spock, looking like he's barely containing his irritation that Jim's suggested yet another plan that goes against all regulations and common sense. Who made this vid. Who the fuck dared and tried to sum up the complexity that was Spock in a series of two second clips combined with that stupid music? Who?

_So play it sweet in Heaven_

Spock playing the lyre with Nyota. Spock and Chekov in front of a huge board of calculations. Spock studying a chess setup, Jim in the background looking on. Shit, did he always have that stupid expression on his face when he was around Spock? The one that just telegraphed to everyone that he was stupid in love?

'_cause that's right where you wanna be_

Spock and Bones looking so pissed off that it was funny. He couldn't tell if they were mad at each other, or if they were mad at Jim. The twin expressions of anger—Bones irate, Spock expressionless, were hilarious. Followed by clips of Spock and Bones in deep discussion about some medical study or another. There's a message in there, somewhere. Or a reminder.

_I'm not cryin' 'cause I feel so sorry for you_

They're so generic. Mundane. Almost all the clips are from the day to day stuff, the boring routine of the ship. There's a couple of Spock alert and sharp during red alert. It's everything that Jim misses about Spock, everything that death took away. But it's also nothing. It's nothing because no one knew Spock like Jim, no one has those memories and no one has to deal with that kind of loss. This throws in his face the two aspects of grief—the intimately personal and the universal. All summed up in Spock. In a vid.

_I'm cryin' for me_

The personal. The personal because they were careful about keeping their relationship from prying eyes and off the cameras. But they weren't perfect, Jim knows. There's got to be clips of them kissing. He waits for it, remembering that people got glimpses of their privacy and angry that it was on display for everyone. Jim keeps waiting, but it never comes. There's only one image and Jim almost misses it. It's hidden, subtle, no one would've made anything of it—they're kissing, Vulcan style. Jim looks stupid in love. And so does Spock.

The anger melts as quickly as it built up and it's replaced by a bizarre sense of loss all over again. In his confusion, the thought occurs that he should've tried to convince Spock to let him set up some cameras to make their own porn flick. Because apparently, they were too good at keeping things under wraps. Either that or the crewperson didn't add any of the clips of kissing and touching out of respect.

_I got up and dialed you number And your voice came on the line  
That old familiar message I heard a thousand times it just said_

"This is Commander S'chn T'gai Spock of Vulcan speaking. As regulated by Starfleet, I am leaving behind a prerecorded message in the event of my death. This may be considered my last will and testament, to executed according to the law and without deviation. It is my wish."

"_Sorry that I missed you Leave a message and God bless."  
I know you think I'm crazy But I had to hear your voice I guess_

Jim doesn't remember going through Spock's will, though he knows he did. There weren't too many things that Spock needed done. Different people inherited his science projects, Spock donated his stack of copyrights and patents, as well as the royalties, to the Vulcan Science Academy. Different artifacts in his quarters got returned to his father's house, others were gifted to the crew. It was all legal stuff. He has no idea why the vid editor decided to add this in.

_I'm gonna miss that smile,_

"I believe, furthermore, that it is customary among Terrans to leave behind a message of goodwill or farewell. An intriguing tradition, as the difference between the time the message is recorded—during life—and the time received—after death—creates the illusion that the deceased is delivering a message from 'beyond the grave', as the phrase goes, when this very clearly is not true. If you are watching this, I am dead. This recording cannot truly speak in my stead."

_I'm gonna miss you my friend_

Bones snorts. "I remember this part. That idiot Vulcan couldn't stop analyzing the hell out of everything in sight. Never knew when to shut up."

_Even though it hurts the way it ended up_

"Nonetheless, I find myself compelled to make these statements. I cannot predict the circumstances of my death—if I could, I would certainly take every precaution to avoid it. I have calculated the probability of the different ways I may die. The likelihood that I will die of old age seems decidedly low. Conversely, the odds are high that I will die prematurely, in the line of duty. If this is the case, then I wish to convey my gratitude and respect towards the crew of the _Enterprise_. It has been an honor to serve with each and every one of you."

_I'd do it all again_

"I also wish to express regret. I regret that I am no longer able serve alongside you, I regret that I am not alive. No one has been able to make any definitive statements concerning death. Every civilization has speculated on what may lie beyond it. Based on my current observations, however, the state of being alive seems infinitely preferable to the state of being dead, and I regret that when you receive this message, I will be among the latter. Death does not even grant the courtesy of allowing me to bring a tricorder to survey its landscape and to deconstruct the mystery that shrouds it."

_So play it sweet in Heaven_

Jim can't take it. Fuck the time passed, fuck the summers, he can't take Spock speaking so calmly about the matter of his own death like it's a science experiment. This is why—probably subconsciously—he didn't go back to these recordings. Spock talking about the time difference and speaking in future tense and Jim feeling like it's Spock saying this after death but knowing rationally that it's not and the fact that Spock even discusses that is all kinds of complicated and twisting he doesn't want to think about. He wants to ask Bones why the fuck they're watching this, but nothing comes out.

'_cause that's right where you wanna be_

"To those of you who knew me, I will not ask you not to grieve. In Vulcan there is a saying, which I have at times offered to certain individuals among you. I say it to you now: 'I grieve with thee.' Perhaps it is strange for me to say this when it is my death you are mourning, but just as I regret that I am not alive, I grieve that this fact must cause you pain, confusion, anger, sorrow—an entire spectrum of emotion."

_I'm not cryin' 'cause I feel so sorry for you_

"I will ask, however, that after the period of mourning, that you continue forwards. You are among the living, I am among the dead. We are separated, perhaps irrevocably, perhaps not. I do not know. In my own experience with grief and death, I have found that an impermeable barrier lies between the two realms, and the only way to penetrate that wall is through memory."

_I'm cryin' for me_

"In the first year of James T. Kirk's captaincy, he delivered one of many eulogies. It was not particularly brilliant, and I do not believe it will be recorded as one of the great pieces of rhetoric. The words have, however, remained with me, and I would like to quote them now, with some minor edits."

He hates this part. He remembers it and he hates it because even if the words stayed with Spock, Jim's not sure if he still believes in them. It was a speech he made when he was fucking young, and he feels like had made it when he didn't know anything about true depths of death and grief. That Spock decides to quote it like it has answers is—he doesn't know what to make of that.

_So play your upside-down left-handed backwards bass guitar_

"'I don't know if you believe in an afterlife, or a better place, or an indestructible soul. I'm not even sure what I believe in, to be honest. Spock would probably tell me that humans have a propensity to seek for meaning after death, that it's all hardwired into our brains. But why shouldn't we? Why shouldn't we ask for death to have meaning? Life has tons of meaning, and death better damn well have just as much or this universe is way more fucked up than I thought.'

Spock doesn't even need notes. He just says it from memory. The irony of that.

_And I'll see you on the other side_

"'I don't really know where I'm going with this. But just—the dead will be remembered by us. A memory's a horrible replacement for the real thing, but it's better than nothing. And we'll keep reaching out to the stars, and new people, and new planets. And every new creature we meet, ever star we see, maybe it's like part of all those people who've died on these missions is touching out too. Like an echo, a ripple that spreads out in space.'

Bullshit. That's such bullshit. Spock's dead, he's speaking from beyond the dead even though he's not, quoting Jim's words back at him when Jim has no answers and is still raging and hurting with the pain of separation, that impermeable barrier. Fuck, Spock might as well be living in the vid screen, the way things are. Jim could put his hand out to touch his face and all he'd feel is smooth pane of high grade plastic.

_Superstar_

"'That's really why we're here. We carry the memories of people who've passed, the memories of people we've seen, the images of the people we love. And maybe, maybe some sliver of them is passed on and survives in every new person we meet, every new friendship we make, every new species we discover. And _those_ are the voyages of the starship _Enterprise_.'"

Bones is next to him, just watching. What's it do for Bones, to watch these vid clips and listen to Spock's voice taking apart death that's can't be taken apart at all? And in the background of the Sickbay that damn country song is still playing.

_I'm gonna miss that smile, I'm gonna miss you my friend  
Even though it hurts the way it ended up I'd do it all again  
So play it sweet in Heaven 'cause that's right where you wanna be  
I'm not cryin' 'cause I feel so sorry for you  
I'm cryin' for me_

After that, Spock just looks directly into the camera, his look uncompromising. Like he's facing his own death with the same confidence he handles everything, like he's staring it down and acknowledging it in all its vast and terrible power, but refusing to give in. Give in to what? Jim wants to know. He wants to ask Spock. He vaguely wonders how he looks on his own recorded will.

_I'm still cryin'_

Jim's not crying. He's angry again. There used to be this theory that grief worked in stages, that it followed a pattern. They got rid of that model. Grief cycles. It bends on itself and sometimes Jim feels likes it's a möbius strip, where he's Escher's ant walking the same tired one-two-sided surface over and over again. This vid brings anger up to the surface because he's tired of being sad and fuck it, it's easier to be angry.

_I'm cryin' for me_

The reminder of Spock stuck in another realm of holovids, last will and testament, memory, and death, a place he will never reach, sinks into him again and he doesn't want it. The reality is so glaring this time. It's on a screen. On a fucking screen, the separation is manifested by Spock living and breathing in pixels and code, memory discs, but not in life.

_I'm still cryin'_

Jim watches as Spock holds up the ta'al.

"Live long, and prosper."

He punches the terminal.


	36. Second Summer, 14

Jim's been taking a lot of water showers recently.

He probably shouldn't. After he beamed on board the _Enterprise_ and Scotty beamed into a tank, Jim made it a priority to figure out what the hell that water tank of spinning knives was for and why it had a convenient emergency hatch. Seriously, it was like something out of a movie.

Turns out, it was a water turbine built right into the general circulation system. The ship designers thought, pretty cleverly Spock explained, that they'd take advantage of the already moving water to generate some extra energy towards running the ship. While that didn't explain the emergency hatch—Spock was also at a loss and went through the trouble of looking up design regulations to see if it was instated as a result of some tragic accident—Jim was slightly mollified by the fact that the thing had an actual purpose.

The point is, that water was the recycled and treated stuff that goes into things like showers, toilets, sinks, the pool, ship's laundry, the science lab safety showers, some replicator functions, gets diverted to other ship systems that use water as their main coolant. Drinking water and the deionized stuff they always use in labs is part of another set of pipes entirely. The recycled water's almost a closed system and everything's cleverly designed to recapture liquid, but inevitably volume's constantly lost. Showers are discouraged, even if they are an option. Besides, sonic showers are much more thorough. It gives a deeper clean.

Jim's been taking a lot of water showers anyway.

Spock would be horrified. He was raised on Vulcan, where water conservation is second nature. It's how they survived and managed to build their great civilization in the first place. Jim sometimes wondered if that was the real reason why Vulcans were, roughly speaking, three times smarter than humans—they had to constantly innovate and figure out efficient ways to stay alive. Harsh environments don't lend themselves to much life, but they life they do produce usually comes loaded with amazingly creative adaptations. When Spock was alive, he managed to convince Jim to cut down on a lot on his excessive water use.

Spock's dead now. Jim takes all the water showers he wants and doesn't feel the low buzz of discomfort in the back of his mind.

He lets the water soak into him. Sometimes Jim just stands in the shower under the water, steaming hot, freezing cold, doesn't matter. Stands and feels the water hit his body, washing whatever emotions and stress away with it. Puts his face right in front of the shower head and closes his eyes in the spray.

He can't stand forever, though. There's some sort of volume or time limit—he forgets which—that shuts everything off automatically to prevent the system of bleeding water. And there's a quota. The water won't turn on again for another few hours. Once, Jim suspected that it was actually Vulcans who designed the shower system. Spock said that was impossible, since Vulcans would never think to include a pool in the ship's facilities. Even so, there's no override and the only place you can get an unlimited shower or, even rarer—a bath—is in Sickbay. He was tempted a few times, but no.

So Jim stands, water dripping, staring at the showerhead like it's insulted him. Sometimes he stays for the blow drier, another feature meant to get back every fucking drop. The air comes rushing out from carefully calculated directions, driving the water off him and massaging his skin with ghostly hands. Other times, he's not in the mood and goes for the really water inefficient solution, grabbing a towel. Jim stands in front of his mirror covered with fog (hot showers) and imagines Spock in the frosted reflection (cold showers).

Jim.

I know.

I did not say anything.

You were thinking it.

T'hy'la, you cannot know what I am thinking.

I know. Stop rubbing it in.

Jim.

Don't say it. Just don't say it.

Very well.

I'm trying, all right? I'm trying the best that I can. What more do you want from me?

I do not ask anything of you.

Then why're you haunting me? Don't answer that.

He leaves the fresher and puts on some clothes.

Spock?

No answer.

Spock? Are you there?

No answer.

Are you real? Who the hell am I talking to? Who the fucking hell am I talking to?

Do you truly wish for me to answer that question, Jim?

No.

Silence.

I don't know. Did you know that some people are allergic to sonic showers?

Yes.

Of course Spock knew. Spock knew everything.

I do not know everything, Jim. You saw that, as well as my limitations.

Limitations. Finite. As wonderful and awesome as Spock's mind was, it was finite, like Jim's. Like everything that has a box around it.

If you're real

Spock raises his eyebrow.

Hypothetically, okay? If you're real, would you ever lie to me?

Have I ever lied to you?

You weren't always truthful. I can think of a couple times you lied, by omission or by annoyingly convoluted langauge.

Jim, do not continue to ask yourself this question. It does no good. You know there is no answer.

I want to know. I miss you.

Silence.

I love you.

He imagines the touch of fingers brushing the back of his hand.

Please, come back to me. Please.

And the only eyes staring back at Jim are his own, steel blue streaks in the mirror.


	37. Second Summer, 15

Grief leaves him resigned. It leaves him exhausted. It leaves his mind going in tired circles over tired questions that he knows no one has the answer to. Things like what is the point. What the fuck is the point.

What is the point of this disciplinary hearing they're going through because some engineer switched up the circuitry for the control panels. Does it matter if he did it with malicious intent. Does it matter if they came two seconds close to blowing themselves up. Why the fuck does it all matter. The ceremony, the procedure, the evidence Scotty's putting up, the jargon Chekov's babbling, the security feeds Sulu's showing. He'll make a decision, engineer will be charged with whatever he's being charged with, Uhura'll notify Starfleet's legal department, the _Enterprise_ keeps flying. Bones keeps giving him worried looks. Jim ignores him.

Because what the fuck is the point.

He's been upholding his duty because there was nothing left to keep him together. He's been doing his best as captain because that's nothing less than the crew deserves, and it feels like a desecration to the memory of Spock to do a half-assed job. But some days, he just doesn't want to deal with it. Doesn't care about the consequences. Knows it's unfair to the people serving under him but he can't muster enough energy to give two shits about it. Because Spock isn't there. Spock isn't there.

He feels like he should be used to this knowledge, but it washes over him again and leaves him feeling numb. Not the kind of suppressing the crap out of his emotions kind of numb, but the numbness where there's really nothing left. No sadness, no rage, no thought, no feeling. Nothing. No denial about the fact that Spock's dead, no bitterness about the unfairness of it. Simply nothing. Suddenly he feels like there's no use for emotions because what difference does it make. What difference does it make.

What difference does it make whether he decides to take an engineer to task for endangering their lives—what difference does it make whether he wins or loses a firefight—what's the point of gaining all these battlefield decorations—why should he care about efficiency ratings of his crew—what does it matter that they're all falling apart at the seams in one way or another—why should he care about developments between Orions and Cardassians on the Septillian border—why should he care? In some ways it seems like this phase of his grief—why is he keeping track of the phases—should've come earlier, like it should've hit him faster that he feels like there's no point to anything he does now that Spock's gone. But Jim was too busy trying to survive the grief and reclaim something of his life, try and return to some sense of normalcy or piece together the shattered parts, and now he finds his energy is gone. Grief's sapped everything from him. Happiness, hope, sorrow, frustration. Annoyance, anxiety, exasperation, triumph. What is the point.

And there is no answer.

He asks Spock, the one he's constructed in his head. The one whose voice he simulates in his mind because he can't carry this alone. He needs someone, and that someone needs to be Spock, even if it's Spock's death he's pushing through. He feels like he's stuck in mud and he's been trying to get out of the pit for so long but the only place he's going is down deeper and the only thing that's been accomplished is wasted energy. Why did he try to get out in the first place when the end result will be the same—and probably quicker, not so excruciatingly drawn out. But the Spock who was alive and the Spock in his head—they're the same now, and Jim hates that fact—Spock would be there telling Jim to hang on, telling Jim what to do in that calm, rational manner, telling Jim that Spock expects him to stay alive, and not give up.

Sometimes he remembers missions when the only reason why Jim felt like he bothered to stay was because he knew Spock was coordinating rescue operations for him. Jim didn't want to let Spock down. Sometimes in his nightmares he dreamed that he'd died and Spock was reaching for him on the transporter pad and when he realized that Jim wasn't there, was gone, dead and silent and beyond his reach, his face shattered and heart exploded in pain. Jim'd wake up from those dreams sweating, chest aching, and every single time the first thing he'd do was feel the presence of Spock under his hands. In the darkness, Spock would submit to that touch because he knew how much Jim needed it, Spock would watch him with dark eyes and sit up to kiss Jim's eyebrows and whisper meaningless Vulcan words as he ran his fingers through Jim's hair. They never talked about it—Jim never wanted to talk about it, never brought it up in the light of day as though it could never be realized if he never spoke of it when he could see Spock's face. In the darkness it was something else. In the darkness he could tell his wordless fears to Spock, touching him and letting bare skin and the sound of Spock's breathing become his only reality.

Spock's dead. The only reality Jim has is the cold darkness of his quarters and it used to terrify him, it used to comfort him, because he could pretend, because he could not pretend. Now, he doesn't know what the point of it all was. Why is he talking to a dead Spock in his head when Spock is dead. Why is he trying at all. Why does he care.

And Spock tells him that James Tiberius Kirk cares because there are other people to whom he has a responsibility, there are other people who he cares about and who care about him. That even when he can't muster the emotional energy, somehow he gets through the shifts and does his duty because he is not capable of giving any less. It's who he is. Grief has stripped him down to the bare bones of his character and he's finding out exactly what kind of man he is, what kind of material he's made of. James Tiberius Kirk is made of brilliance and arrogance and trauma, he's made of homelessness and hopelessness and choices. The choice of his father to die for his mother, of his mother to live for her sons, of Bones to stick to him faster than burr, of Spock to join the _Enterprise_ as first officer—of Spock to love him and name him t'hy'la.

But you're dead. You're dead. None of that matters anymore.

It matters because death does not undo the choices that were made. Death ended their relationship, but it never ended the fact that Jim Kirk survived Nero's attacks, saved the world, became captain, fell in love. It matters because he needs to distinguish between the things that death touches and the things that death cannot take away.

But what about us? What happens to us? You're dead—that changes us completely. We're not anymore. We're _not_. You're dead and we're left with me, and I can't do this anymore. I can't keep trying anymore. You took everything we had when you died and I can't do this anymore. I want to do this anymore. I don't care anymore. What's the point. What's the point.

What happens to us, Jim, are two summers. Two summers, and you will not have answers, but it will be enough. Time passes. Wait two summers, Jim, and you will know what we are.

I can't wait that long. I don't know what two summers are anymore. I don't know what I am without you, I don't know why I'm still standing, why I didn't follow you into the dark. I don't know why I'm still standing in the light and why I'm talking to you in my head when you don't exist. Spock, you don't exist. Why does it matter anymore, two summers or fifteen summers. Give me a reason why.

You already know my answer to that.

Give me a reason why.

Jim, you know there is no reason I can give you. The only reason why you continue is because you create one, independently of whatever others may do or say. This has always been your way, and you would not accept any reason that I offered.

Give me a reason why, Spock. I don't know anymore. It's not enough. It's not enough for me to remember, it's not enough for life to exist. It's not enough anymore.

It has always been enough, Jim, and it always will be. Your question is analogous to asking me why I love you.

Loved. Past tense. You're not here.

Love. Present tense. You protest that this is not correct because I am no longer alive, but I assert that love does transcend the boundaries of life and death. So long as our love is remembered, it lives.

Fuck you. Fuck you. That's bullshit. Memory isn't life. I've been breathing all these fucking memories and it's not life. It's nothing compared to what we had. Nothing.

But Jim, life is binary. One is either alive or dead—biologically speaking there is no state in between. Granted, we can certainly disagree on the quality of that life, we might assert that a creature in a vegetative state is as good as dead, but that is altogether different from the question of life and death.

I'm not going to settle for a life of reminiscing, Spock.

I was not suggesting that you do so. I am simply saying that our love is strong enough that the memory will sustain you for the duration of two summers. After two summers, you will find your situation changed.

What if I don't want that change. I don't want that change.

If you had not wanted that change, you would not have chosen grief.

I didn't choose this. No one would ever choose this.

Life is binary, Jim. Given the choice between life and death, you chose to live—and so you chose to grieve.

I thought you always said I had a third option.

Your third option lies in the quality of life you decided to pursue. Some never let go of death—it defines them and hangs over them as they are living. You chose to live—and so you chose to grieve.

You already said that. I hate it when you repeat yourself. If you don't have a better argument, just admit you're wrong.

I am never wrong, and that is my best argument. It is insuperable, as evinced by the fact that you could not provide an adequate counterargument. Furthermore, it bore repeating because you seldom understand my point the first time I state it.

He laughs. For two seconds, it feels like Spock's there again. Alive. Maybe in body, maybe in memory. Jim doesn't care about the difference for two seconds. The feeling fades fast. Leaves him drained, empty. With that question still gnawing at him—why. He doesn't even know what the question's about anymore, only that it's "why."

I miss you.

This will pass, Jim.

I miss you.

Two summers.

I don't want two summers. I miss you.

You chose to live, Jim.

I don't have to keep choosing. I could stop.

You won't.

How do you know, Spock? How the fuck do you know?

He's so fucking tired. Resigned that the best answer he'll get isn't from Spock, but from his imagination of who Spock was. This whole conversation in his mind is crazy and completely made up. He doesn't care. Jim feels his body uncoil and sink into the mattress. Feels his mind drifting to oblivion. Has some absent thought about how Spock's always right, always was and always will be, even in death, even in memory.

How do you know, Spock? How do you know?

Vague recollections of Spock's dark eyes and fingers running through his hair, steadying his heartbeat, kissing his pulse. Of skin enclosing him, of body and heat and breath becoming his only reality, in the darkness, chasing away his fears.

How do you know, Spock? Why?

Memories of Spock smiling, whispering, dark eyes and sharp joints, soft touches and a kiss.

Because

Because, he was saying, in Vulcan, almost inaudible, that incomprehensible pre-Surak variant that no one but people like Spock ever knew or bothered to study. Because, he was saying, and in that word seemed to be emptiness of meaning, waiting for completion, for a subordinate clause, for a reason.

How do you know, Spock. How will I know?

Because

And he never heard the rest, he'd fall asleep like a stone, nestled in Spock's body, feeling all the emotions drain away like muddy water and nightmares, like desert heat and binary, the passage of time counted by circadian rhythms, circadian rhythms irrelevant by exhaustion, exhaustion marking seasons between summers.

But life is binary—you remember or you don't, and deep inside him, he feels the words

Because

(I love you)


	38. Second Summer, 16

Nyota?

Captain.

How're you holding up.

Fine, sir.

Fine has variable meanings.

…Jim.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Bad joke. Can't say I didn't try.

Well, you did a little. Only just.

I could hit on you. You know, like the good old days. (Before I was married)

(Before you were married…) Scotty'd kill you.

Nah. He understands a joke.

Oh, he understands a joke. That's not why he'd kill you.

I get it, I get it. You'd sic him on me. Kinda like Cupcake got riled up and righteous for your honor.

No, that was all you, Jim. You called him Cupcake.

Blame the victim, huh?

Well, you were never innocent.

Got me there. (Or something)

I can't believe you said 'the good old days.' We're not that old.

(We're not young either) Have you got something against old people, Commander Uhura?

Jim (You're an idiot)

Are you telling me this whole time, I've been working with an ageist! Nyota! It's like I never knew you! (You're not laughing) Still not a funny joke?

Still not a funny joke.

Scotty's ruined you. Bet the only jokes you get now have to do with nacelles.

(Could say the same for you and Spock) You forgot the ones that have to do with Scottish nationalism.

See? I rest my case.

(It's good to see you laughing, Jim. Even if Spock's always behind your eyes

(It's okay. You said two summers, right? I asked Spock. He said two summers. We'll know after two summers

(I asked my mother where she heard that, and she said it was from an old story, about a mother who lost her son in a war. Her mother told her two summers. It's been passed down ever since

(Nyota

(Captain

(How're you holding up

(I'm holding up, Jim. I'm holding up

(Do you miss him?

(Every day. Some days I manage to forget about it

(What do you miss most?

(Honestly?

(Honestly

(He thought you were crazy, you know. Even after the bond

(You think Scotty's crazy

(We talked a lot. To de-stress, to complain about you or Scotty. I miss the sound of his voice

(You guys had pity parties together and didn't invite me?

(Jim

(Okay, I'll stop. I'll come up with a better one next time

(He was my best friend, Jim. It would be like

(Me and Bones

(You and Leonard

(…I'm sorry I never talked to you about—never talked earlier—or

(It's all right. You talked to us all right after it happened. We shift the weight around

(Think it'll ever go away?

(Do you want it to go away?

(…

(Sorry, stupid question. I just meant—

(No, I get what you mean, Nyota. I get what you mean. I don't really have answer

(I don't think we're meant to

(You know what he loved most about you?

(My dazzling intelligence

(He loved your voice. The way it reaches down and _pulls_. He loved the way you combed your hair before you went to sleep, the smooth motions of it

(Jim—

(There were some missions where it wasn't the memory of me or our bond that got him through, but that he had ndugu like you

(Which missions—?

(_Narada_, for one. Caliphon Okrimi, Sigma-4300, Gemini, and that one with the Gesseri people

(I don't remember what—

(Species extermination. Or extinction. They were all related to Vulcan. The only way he got through those missions was by keeping a memory of you in his mind

(Jim

(You're the closest thing to family he had. I'm sorry I dumped all that shit on you. Making you First

(Don't regret it. I don't regret it

(Yeah, well. Anyway. He loved your voice. I thought you should know that. He was—

(Captain?

(I'm okay

(Jim, it's all right

(I'm okay. I have to say this—I _have_ to say this

(It's okay, Jim. Take your time

(He was looking forward to when you and Scotty'd have a family. He was an only child—you know that—didn't even know he had a half brother—he wanted to see if you'd have kids or something. Did you ever talk about it?

(Yes. I brought it up, thinking about future career paths. Spock made an enormous three dimensional multivariable Punnett square, with statistical probabilities

(Sounds like him

(It was very him

(Yeah

(…How're you holding up, Jim?

((shrug)

(That good, huh

(Could be worse. Ship's running. We're alive. I'm fine

(Fine

(Ha ha, funny

(I didn't say anything

(You were about to

(Was not

(You were thinking it

"Captain?"

"Lt. Welsh."

"Sorry to interrupt, Commander, but we've got a situation. Need you and the captain on the bridge."

"We'll be down in three, lieutenant."

"Understood, Commander."

Why do you do that?

Do what?

Answer them for me.

Habit. (Because Spock always did it. And your heart gave out on us)

(Nyota?

(Yes, Captain?

(Two summers. I asked Spock, and he said two summers. After that, we'll know what to do

(Jim?

(Yeah?

(Thanks. For—

(No problem. You did the same for me

(Yeah

(Yeah. Let's go.

))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))


	39. Second Summer, 17

Jim's brushing his teeth. He spits out his toothpaste and looking up in the mirror is Spock. Jim blinks. His vision clears and Spock's not there.

Why do you always visit me when I'm in the fresher?

He's swishing water in his mouth, spitting. Jim takes his bottle of mouthwash and takes a swig.

I do not visit you, Jim.

He's got his mouth full of burning mint, moving it back and forth. He throws his head back and stares at the overhead light while he gargles.

Yeah you do. Seriously, this is kind of weird.

Approximate the time, then spit. Spock always counted, and not even consciously, per se. That internal clock was trained into him. He cleans his mouth with water again.

Your body and mind relax when you are here. That is why I seem to 'appear' while you are attending to your hygiene in the fresher.

You're saying I feel comfortable. In the bathroom.

Affirmative.

Oh god. I really am going insane. And don't say it. I'm fucking losing my mind.

Jim, let go of this doubt, this uncertainty. It is preventing you from mourning.

Don't say shit like that. Don't say shit like that—it's not a joke. You're dead. What do you want me to do? You're dead and I can't even visit your grave to talk to you.

Why is it so important that you know whether or not I am alive, even in death?

Because I love you.

Silence.

Frustration mounts. Jim finds himself staring at the mirror.

Because it doesn't get to _end_ this way. We should've had a lifetime, Spock. We should've had a lifetime. Your alternate self's still alive, doing diplomatic work and you're dead. You're _dead_.

As I understand, you died prematurely in the alternate timeline.

So what, this is an evening of the scores or something? Averaging shit out?

That was not my meaning, Jim.

I love you. Even if you're dead, you feel alive to me. I want you to be alive. Every day, I want you back by my side, in my bed, bonded to me. Death can't fucking do this to us, Spock. It can't.

Jim.

Do you get it now?

T'hy'la.

Do you? I'm the one left behind. I'm the one fucking left behind.

Shit. Jim's heart is clenching.

Breathe, t'hy'la.

His hand's right over his heart and Jim takes a long, slow inhale, wishing Spock's hand were covering his. Remembering other times, other nights, a thousand memories.

Breathe.

He lets go and the tension building under his ribcage uncoils, little by little. After a few moments, he's got a rhythm. Mind's calm, chest is still tight but there's no attack. He'd closed his eyes while he was breathing. Opening them again, he sees the sink. Looking up, he sees his reflection. No Spock.

It's under control. Jim steps out of the fresher and catches sight of the clock. He needs to go soon if he wants to get something resembling breakfast before shift.


	40. Second Summer, 18

His whole team is with him, walking through an art gallery. The _Enterprise_ is on a diplomatic mission, but the ambassador of one of the representative planets is such an admirer of Jim and his crew that she invited them to join her for dinner and a tour of a special art exhibition. Jim's polite and so are his crew. They accept her invitation without complaint.

The exhibition is of a pre-Warp Terran painter named Mark Rothko. How this planet has a Rothko collect, he doesn't know. Jim generally doesn't know anything about Rothko. During the tour, words like 'depressed,' 'suicide,' 'abstract expressionism' are mentioned, but Jim's distracted by the paintings themselves. The fields of color.

That's the first thing he notices—the colors. After his eyes becomes used to seeing the floating blocks, he becomes aware of other things like the opacity or translucency. Like the way some of the borders melt, while others are strongly delineated. The way that the colors interact with each other, the way that the blocks are layered. Sometimes only a border of color peaks out from under another and he feels almost as though he could lift that first layer away to reveal the brilliant hues lying underneath. As he walks along, he can almost imagine this man, Rothko, putting down each tone. Jim pauses every once in a while to take in the texture of the brush strokes, the way the paint was moved around and has quality to itself.

He loses himself in these fields of color. He can't help it. It's like they pull emotions out of him. Jim also becomes aware of his crew's reactions to the art.

Nyota looks like she doesn't want to follow their host. She looks like she wants to just stand at her leisure and stare at a canvas to take in all the minute details. Jim's drawn to the continuum of Rothko's works, but Nyota's drawn to specific color combinations. Or maybe the better word is specific moods. Jim wonders what she sees, how she's processing these canvases, the depth of understanding and insight she brings to the works and Rothko's oeuvre. Out of all of them, she and Spock were the ones who appreciated and understood art most. Jim learned a lot about art by virtue of being Spock's lover and because on almost every diplomatic mission, it was one of those "things to do for visiting officials" planetary governments did to show off their cultures.

Scotty looks around the room with interest, but he's mostly listening to the words of their host. He occasionally asks questions about Rothko's career, what happened after the suicide, where are most of his works housed. Scotty's a genius and can recognize the genius of another, but Jim can see that he can't quite understand the type of genius that's drawn to self destruction. As an engineer, Scotty creates. He makes solutions and saves them from death. As Rothko's canvases get darker and—Jim didn't know this was possible but it's true—more abstract, he can see that Scotty's a bit uncomfortable with the darkness of it all.

Sulu is the model of politeness and tact. He doesn't get art. It can be interesting, but this art that's borderline obsessive, repetitive blocks of color, isn't his thing. Some color combinations strike him and he pauses in front of the canvas or gives it a second glance, but he moves on. Keeps up with the host. Doesn't think about his reactions, doesn't analyze whatever emotions are coming up. Sulu reminds Jim of himself, before art appreciation was drilled into him by Nyota and Spock. He briefly wishes he could go back to that time, when the only eye for detail would've had was naming the colors and backgrounds. Which is funny, because the more Rothko canvases he sees, the more it becomes obvious that he _can't_ name the colors. One canvas of red-white-yellow-orange is different from another red-offwhite-orange-yellow. There are a thousand different shades in hundreds of combinations, each evoking a different emotion.

Bones is quiet. He looks at a canvas, then looks back at the ones preceding it. Not methodically, but Bones keeps looking back. Like he can trace the path of Rothko's psychological life or something by the colors the painter uses. Like he's comparing the vibrant tones of the beginning to the darkness that's encroaching, that will eventually consume Rothko's vision. There's got to be some metaphor for life in there. Bones looks like he's getting angry, as though he disagrees with Rothko's message—if the painter had a message at all—and he's like nothing better than to shake the canvas out of their deathly colors. Jim can't blame him. Bones is a doctor, and Rothko committed suicide.

Chekov is more like Sulu. He has no reaction to most of the canvases, but some of them seem to take him by surprise, and not always in a good way. They reach out and grip him bodily, but after that initial shock and reaction, the emotions go away and he follows the group to the next canvas. It has Jim worried. What does Pavel see? What is he reacting to? Sometimes he regrets that he let Chekov stay on the _Enterprise_ at the age of seventeen. Space is exciting, but it's also brutal. Jim, Spock, Bones, everyone went through traumatic times that they felt like they couldn't handle. People much older than seventeen succumbed to severe PTSD. Pavel is still standing, changed, but changed quietly. Spock's death made him even quieter.

Christine feels the canvases. Feels them, digests them, absorbs them and is absorbed by them. Smiles little smiles, frowns slightly, eyes glow with moisture. She keeps pace with their group, makes occasional comments about how one canvas reminds her of watermelons or another looks like a desert moon. The host and the others react to her, opening up the atmosphere and chipping away at the stifling mood of the gallery. They all have their distinct reactions, they all see the way that Rothko's vision is getting darker. But as much as these canvases draw out their individual emotional landscapes, they are walking together as a group. They are aware of each other's presence, comfortable in that knowledge, taking stock in it. Jim finds himself responding to the banter that is by turns light, by turns serious.

Maybe this is what they needed. Because by the end of the gallery, when the fields of color are variations of black, deep plum, violet, when their eyes adjust and they see colors evocative of the shades of death, there is no way of avoiding Spock. And they all react so differently.

Nyota's silent, tears streaming down her cheeks. Scotty goes to her side and wraps his arms around her. He looks like he's holding back tears too. Sulu put his hand on Nyota's shoulder, face closed with deep scratches of grief. Chekov walks away, refusing to look at the canvas. But the way this part of the gallery's constructed, a version of the black-not-black hangs on every wall. He turns back to the group, stands slightly apart from them, body radiating tension and denial. Bones picks up on that, excuses himself to the very confused host, and he leads Pavel out of the room, out of the gallery entirely. Christine comes up to Jim.

The ambassador is flustered and making clumsy apologies. She's connected the dots, recalled that Spock is dead, that these canvases are powerful, that obviously the memory of Spock's death is still close to them. She feels awkward—it's written all over her face—like she's made a huge social blunder, committed an embarrassing faux pas. Jim's piercing blue eyes pick up on everything. It's telling that she's mortified and blundering through "I'm so sorry for your loss," instead of saying "I'm sorry."

He assures her it's fine. He apologizes that she feels discomfited. Christine is next to him, unearthly grey eyes going between him and the ambassador. She reassures the ambassador in looks what Jim says in words. But Jim does ask if they can have a moment alone, and the ambassador hastily says "of course, I'm so sorry, of course" and leaves.

They have their moment.

When they finally leave the gallery, they meet Bones and Pavel outside. Pavel's smoking. There are two stubs on the ground. Bones greets them, says something sarcastic about never going to art galleries again and how they should put up signs that say "Warning: depressing and harrowing experience."

There are laughs. Jim jumps on that momentum and goes for the jugular, saying that Spock would be really amused by all of this emotional compromise on his behalf. He breaks the tension of that statement by moving back to safer ground, offering his opinion that he liked some of Rothko's earlier works, but the later ones weren't his thing.

And they're off. The heaviness is slowly dispelled as Sulu says he didn't like the gallery at all, the whole time he was wondering why they think the painter was a genius, Scotty says that Rothko strikes him has man who didn't know any good knock-knock jokes, Nyota tells Scotty he's not one to talk because knock-knock jokes aren't that great either...

They're regrouping. Jim smiles, adds his own terrible and somewhat graphic joke to the growing pool.

They head back to the quarters on the base.

To no one in particular, or to Spock, he thinks, he reminds himself, "we're getting there."

He can almost see Spock agree.


	41. Second Summer, 19

| _Давайте__делать__паузы__в__словах__,_|  
"Look, Pash, will you just calm down—"  
| _Произнося_ |  
"I am not knowing why you are telling me to calm down, I am already calm, _spokoyno_—"  
| _И__умолкая__снова__,_ _Чтоб__лучше__отдавалось__в__головах_ |  
"You've been pacing nonstop—" "I am not going to wear a hole into the floor, Hikaru  
| _Значенье__выше__сказанного__слова_ |_  
_"And if I am able to put a hole in the floor by walking on it many times

_Давайте__делать_

"Then this whole ship is falling apart before we get attacked by Klingons. Klingons are not ewen needing to attack us, they only need to wait for all our ships to come apart themselves because people are walking in them. But we haf been attacked by Klingons and there are no holes in the floor, so I am not going to be wearing a hole on it."

_Паузы в словах._

"Pasha—"

| _Давайте делать паузы в пути_, |  
"Sulu, it's okay. Just, let him pace. He's not putting any holes in our ship."  
_Смотреть__вокруг__внимательно__и__строго__,_ |  
"He is not wanting me to pace because it makes him nervous."  
|_ Чтобы случайно дважды не пройти _|  
"You're wound up tighter than a screw—"  
|_ Одной и той неверною дорогой._ |  
"You cannot be winding screws. You are talking about springs, not screws. This is elementary physics."

_Давайте__делать_

"We can't all be physics geniuses like you—"  
"And we cannot all sit unnaturally still like you are always doing!"  
"Guys. It's okay. Scotty'll be fine."

_Паузы__в__пути__._

|_Давайте__делать__просто__тишину__,_ |  
"How are you knowing this? How can you be knowing this?"  
|_Мы__слишком__любим_ |  
"I don't know."_  
_| _Собственные__речи__, _|  
"I don't know, but I trust Bones, and I trust my luck."  
|_И__из__-__за__них__не__слышно__никому_ |  
"Luck is not a wery good bet for you, Keptan. It is true, you have been lucky many times, but you haf been unlucky many times."  
| _Своих__друзей__на__самой__близкой__встрече__,_ |  
"Pasha, will you shut up for two seconds—" "No I cannot shut up, Hikaru, because I am not trusting in luck and I saw ewerything that was happening—did you see,

_Давайте__делать_

"Hikaru? Did you see? Transporter malfunction. Transporter malfunction! Do you know how hard it is to fix anything in a transporter malfunction? When they are dead, when the molecules are mixed up and lost, they are gone. It is disappeared."

_Просто__тишину__._

| _И__мы__увидим__в__этой__тишине_ |  
"Jesus Christ Pash, of all the times you choose to freak out—what the fuck is up with you?  
| _Как__далеко_ |  
"He's going to be fine, Doc said there's nothing damaged that he can't fix, and we've been through seventeen firefights, sixty-seven transporter malfunctions, two engine compromises, nineteen circuit overloads, and you freak out _now_?"  
| _Мы__были__друг__от__друга__,_ |  
"You are telling me that I am too quiet, I am always too quiet and serious after we  
| _Как__думали__, __что__мчимся__на__коне__,_ |  
"After we lost Spock, are losing Spock, and now you want me to shut up?" Jim braces himself.  
| _А__сами__просто_|  
Chekov's a day late, a dollar short, but a day in two summers isn't too much of a delay, and dollars are irrelevant.  
| _Бегали__по__кругу__._ |  
Sulu looks like he wants to kill something. Jim makes a note to spar with him as soon as they're done here.

_А__думали__что_

"Yeah. Yeah, I want you to shut up Pash because it's been a long day, Scotty's gonna be fine, and I do not want to deal with this bullshit."

_Мчимся на коне._

| _Как верили, что главное придет,_ |  
"Then go! No one is forcing you to be staying here. No one is making you listen! Maybe I haf been gathering all the words I cannot be finding _imeno sechas_  
| _Себя__считали_ |  
"_Imeno sechas_, because I had no words before, and I still haf no words, there are only equations and I am calculating trajectories and grawity boost  
| _Кем__-__то__из__немногих_ |  
"But nothing is making sense, and the Russian Orthodox Church says Heawen is a wery nice place but I am not beliewing in it  
| _И__ждали__, __что__вот__-__вот__произойдет_ |  
"There is only space, and more space, and matter, and dark matter, and eweryone who is dying returns to matter but I do not know where they go because there is nothing.  
| _Счастливый поворот твоей дороги._ |  
"There is nothing."

_Судьбы твоей счастливый_

"Chekov, it's okay. Do you want to talk about this with someone? Maybe Chris or Bones—"

"I am talking about it right now. Right now. _Imeno sechas._ I haf lost a brother, I haf lost comrades, I haf lost Amanda Grayson—and you are not knowing what it is like to lose someone on a technical malfunction. A _technical malfunction_."

_Поворот__._

| _Но__век__уже_|  
"It is not like losing someone because you are not firing your phaser fast enough, it is like  
|_Как__-__будто__на__исходе_ |  
"Fighting time, and machines, and the understanding that I am human  
|_И__скоро_ |  
"With two hands that are not like a robot and cannot fix a _stupid _technical malfunction to bring  
| _Без__сомнения__пройдет__,_ |  
"To bring back mothers and brothers and ghosts of our fathers.  
| _А__с__нами__ничего__не__происходит__,_ |  
"I haf accepted it, but I cannot accept it."

_И вряд ли что-нибудь произойдет._

"You made me beliewe that we do not haf limits, keptan. Spock made me beliewe, because I saw with my own eyes that there is no limit. I haf lost a brother, and friends, and mothers, but I haf newer lost the sound of the _Enterprise_, and now I do not know why she is singing."

_И вряд ли что-нибудь произойдет._

"I do not know why she is singing."


	42. Second Summer, 20

"Chris? Do you ever regret joining Starfleet?"

"Captain?" she looked up at him.

Jim looked at her, then gave a crooked smile.

"How's Scotty?"

"He's fine. A bit of a scare, he almost lost his liver in the accident, but Leonard expects a full recovery. With time."

"No need to talk over my head, Jim, Chris. I feel about as right as rain."

"Y'all let me decide that, I'm the doctor here."

"The situation doesn't call for redundancy, Leonard."

"Clever Chris, y'all're a barrel of laughs. I swear, I'm never getting on that goddamned transporter pad again."

"Hey now, there's nothing wrong with our lady's transporters. Just had little glitch—"

"Scotty, if you don't want me to stick this hypo in you right now, you'd best shut up."

"He's a little tetchy, today, Jim."

"Yeah, Scotty. I figured that one out myself."

"Shut up Jim and get outta the way. I don't have time for your tomfoolery."

"Here to check on my chief engineer is all. Bones, don't wave your tricorder at me."

"You're low on iron. Take these supplements. Chris—Jim needs some vitamin D therapy."

"I'll take care of it, Leonard. You go get some sleep."

"Scotty, I swear your department's put us through more problems this month than the entire duration of our mission. Replicator problems, the crazy engineer trying to blow us to pieces, now your transporter glitch. Y'all have a fight with the _Enterprise_ or something?"

"Leonard—sleep. Now. You're making delirious statements."

"I'm very far from delirium, Chris. I'm right at that sweet spot when you've got so much energy, you don't know what to do with yourself, right before the high wears off and then you sleep for three shifts straight."

"So go—sleep. I'll hold down the fort."

"No, I want to hear Scotty answer this."

"Nope, Doctor. Nothing unusual. She's running right as rain. We've had problems like these before—we simply couldn't afford to focus on them because there were more pressing matters at hand. Sensitive missions and the like."

"Think Starfleet's easing up on us, Jim? For once in our goddamn lives?"

"I think it's about the same. Have a mission to a port planet lined up, then some negotiations between the Privians and the Vmuhthna. Bones, you look like you're about to crash."

"That's rich, Jim, coming from you."

"Great, cause that makes me rich and right."

"Wow, Jim, did you think about that one all day?"

"Come on, Bones. Quarters. Rest. Sleep. Don't make me put a hypo on you."

"Spock woulda pinched me by now. The green blooded bastard didn't know how much those hurt."

"Chris, help me out, will you?"

"I'm going, I'm going. No need to put me on a stretcher. Night y'all."

"Don't stay up reading like you did the last time."

Bones waved, walking towards the bulkheads.

"He always says that—'good night,' even though we're on a spaceship," Scotty nodded towards Bones' retreating figure.

"Yeah, well. You know Bones. Old habits die hard."

"He says it keeps him human," Chris smiled, gently pressing a hypo into Scotty's arm and checking his biobed readings.

"Well, we do what we can to stay sane. I for one, brew moonshine."

Pause. Scotty blinked while Chris patted his arm. He giggled.

"Oops, let that slip. I don't think I was supposed to say that in front of you, Captain," he looked at Jim, a sly expression on his face.

Jim looked at Chris, who looked down at the empty hypo.

"Guess I'll have to write you up now, Scotty. It might even go on your permanent file."

"My permanent file? Damned slip of the tongue. Captain—I'll make a deal with you. You forget about the moonshine, and I'll tell you the secret answer to the riddle that's been driving wise men mad for centuries."

"A mystery, huh? I'm all ears."

"All right. Ready?"

"I'm all ears."

"All right. The answer is—" Scotty suddenly turned around, looking at the beds around him. "Is there an echo in here?"

"No," Jim looked at Chris.

She looked at her tricorder readings and shrugged.

"Strange. I could've sworn I heard—someone said they're all ears. After you said it, Captain."

"Scotty, I was repeating myself."

"Ah. That explains it. I'd thought that maybe…" he looked down at his hands. "What for?"

"What for?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"That's the answer."

"The answer is yes? What was the question? What are we talking about?"

"That wasn't in the deal, Cap'n. Besides, if I told you the question, you'd go mad! Mental! Off your rocker!"

Chris was laughing.

"No deal, Scotty. I'm going to investigate this moonshine you're talking about. I've got Chris here as witness—"

"Vile deceiver! I see the nefarious plan now! You thought you'd be able to pull a sly one over this old Scot, but I'm wise to your plans. You've drugged me to confession!"

"Why Scotty, you've discovered exactly our plot," Chris smiled, feeling his forehead. "Now it looks like we'll have to kill you. On your command, Captain?"

"Right. Sorry about this, Scotty, but understand that we just can't let you go around telling everyone our secrets."

"I knew it all along! But I'll never tell the lot of you the secret location of my moonshine."

"Hate to break it to you, Scotty, but it's a small ship. We'll find it."

"Then… I'll never tell the lot of you the secret ingredient of my moonshine."

"We'll interrogate Nyota."

"Good one, Chris."

"I'm sharp, Captain."

"That's why I chose you."

"Damn you bloody conspirators. I'll, uh, never tell the lot of you the secret of my—watermelon?—oh bugger. I can't think. These drugs are fantastic. Though I could do without the echo. Kind of ringing in my ears."

"Thanks, Scotty. I brewed them myself. The echo should wear off in a few minutes."

"Clever lass! Join me, leave the captain and we'll brew moonshine together for the rest of our lives. We'll steal a shuttle and live as vagabonds."

"Scotty, probably not the best idea to inform me of your secret plans to kidnap Nurse Chapel."

"Ah, but Captain, that's the brilliance of it. While you believe my plan to hijack a shuttle, I will in fact be rewiring the controls of the _Enterprise_. You'll never suspect."

"I'm sure he won't, Scotty."

"Plots within plots, huh? You're tricky one."

"Learned from the best, sir. The great Vulcan himself."

"Surak?"

"Surak? Who's Surak? Captain, I've only known one bloody Vulcan in my life. Or two. There was that old one who told me about that formula I invented. You know, I kind of wish he hadn't told me. It's cheating."

Jim snorted. Chris raised an eyebrow. It didn't help.

"Or maybe three Vulcans. I did meet the man's father. Four—aunt. She was terrifying. Bloody hell, Chris, what've you done? I'm counting Vulcans jumping fences. They're not nearly as friendly as sheep."

"Is that so, Scotty? You're herding Vulcans now? Or are they high-jumping?"

She adjusted the biobed, slipped another hypo on his shoulder.

"Is he falling asleep?"

"Yes I am! You took the wind out of me, Chris. I've been laid low by that—by your special brew. It's thicker than moonshine."

"Rest, Scotty. You need to sleep if you want to get back on duty as soon as possible."

"Sleep. Tell Nyota that I'll see her in the morning. She needn't be so worried."

"I'll let her know."

"She needn't be so worried. I feel so helpless when she cries."

Jim and Chris looked at each other.

In a moment, Scotty was fast asleep. Christine tucked the covers around him, modified the status of his biobed and closed the curtains.

"It's amazing, what we can get used to," Jim said to no one.

"It is. And equally amazing what we can recover from. Captain, wait a moment. I need to give you iron supplements and vitamin D."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot about that."

Christine went to the back, opened and closed drawers, capsules. She came back with two small bottles of pills. Prescriptions instead of hypos. Sometimes he was amazed by all the little details Chris remembered about all her patients.

"These, once a week. They're a concentrated does. And these, once every day."

"Got it. Thanks."

Jim didn't move.

"And to answer your question, yes. There are days when I regret signing up for Starfleet. I think everyone feels that way at certain points."

"When was the last time you felt that way?"

She smiled.

"Today. Leonard was being himself."

He laughed.

"Seriously. When?"

"Honestly, sir?"

"Honestly, Nurse."

"When Spock died, and you almost followed. I almost turned in my uniform."

Jim stared, aware that his mouth was slightly agape. Christine looked away.

"It felt too familiar."

He moved towards her, but she stepped back, crossing her arms.

"Captain, I joined Starfleet to get away from my memories. Everything on Earth was touched with impressions of Roger and—and the wrenching uncertainty—I came to space to search for him, but I came to space to get away from him. What was left of him."

"Chris—"

"After Roger, I thought I'd never find anyone that I could—be close to. I didn't do a very good job of running, if I was trying to run away from human—from connections. I'll never regret the people I've found here, but I do regret—we all assumed you and Spock would never die. It—" she exhaled. "It wasn't a good assumption."

Pause.

He didn't know what to say, but he never knew what to say. That never stopped him from saying the right thing at the right time—Spock had once told him it was his gift of intuition. Jim had retorted that it was a gift in bullshitting.

"Chris—you're always able to help people. You know what to do whenever something's going on. I've never seen anyone who's as good. You—you calm people."

She shook her head.

"No. I've always known I have a gift, but a gift that deals with grief, and pain, and sorrow—Captain."

Chris turned her eyes to him and Jim's heart squeezed. He knew that look. He saw it in the mirror every day.

She turned away.

"A gift like that—better not have it at all. Better not to know it."

Jim was silent. There were no answers.

"You really feel that way, Chris?"

"Do you, Captain?"

Jim paused.

Intuition. Bullshitting.

"I think—we got Scotty to confess the location of his moonshine."

Christine turned back around, looking at him. He offered her his best grin, wide and open. She uncrossed her arms.

"And we sent Bones off to get a solid eight hours of sleep, all within twenty minutes of talking to them. Even Spock'd have a hard time pulling that off. So you know," he shrugged, grin unflagging. "I think your gift is worth that much, at least, if not more. The going price for Scotty's moonshine is pretty high."

"It's been rumored," she smiled. "Tell you what, Captain—I won't run off with Scotty if you give me seventy percent of the profits.

"Deal."

"That quickly? I should've made it eighty, or ninety."

"Don't push it," he laughed. "That's why I agreed as quickly as possible. Can't go back now."

Laughter, and a pause. Something shifted in the air. Things felt cleaner, not so damp.

"I'm going to head up to the bridge. Let me know if you need anything."

"Captain?"

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you ask?"

Jim shrugged.

"No reason. Just felt like it."

Chris looked straight into him, then nodded.

"Remember iron once a day, vitamin D once a week. If you notice a reaction to either of those, let me know immediately," she smiled as Jim rolled his eyes and nodded, "you know the drill."

"Yeah."

"And Captain?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you talk to Sulu?"

"No problem."


	43. Second Summer, 21

Sulu is listening to rap. He doesn't acknowledge Jim when he walks through the bulkheads. Just stays on his bed, hands behind his head, eyes far away, lying in the semi-dark. His entertainment system—custom installed for him by Scotty and Spock as a surprise gift on his birthday—glows blue. Jim catches the word 2Pac on the display.

_How many brothers fell victim to the streets  
Rest in peace, young nigga, there's a heaven for a G  
Be a lie, if I told you that I never thought of death  
My niggas, we the last ones left—but life goes on—_

Sulu—he's a lot like Chekov. Now that Jim thinks about it.  
_as I bail through the empty halls_  
Both of them, they don't really do the grief thing.  
_breath stinkin in my jaws_  
Fuck, no one really _does _grief, or ever wants to  
_ring ring ring_  
but some people are better at it than others  
_quiet y'all, incomin call_  
Bones, Chris, Spock come to mind  
_plus this my homie from high school, he's getting bye_  
They seemed to know, or something  
_it's time to bury another brother, nobody cry_  
Jim suspects he's becoming one of those people too  
_life as a baller_  
But Sulu—  
_alcohol and booty calls  
_Jim doesn't know if it's because Sulu's a soldier or if it's because fuck, he's as young as Jim  
_we used to do them as adolescents do you recall?_  
and most of the crew on the _Enterprise_  
_raised as G's_  
but Sulu's got a way of being quiet. Like Chekov, but different.  
_loc'ed out blazed the weed_  
He's there.  
_get on the roof let's get smoked out_  
He's calm.  
_and blaze with me_  
He likes sparring, fencing, piloting, partying. Making fun of Chekov. But grief?

_two in the morning and we still high assed out  
_Sulu cried at the first funeral, the one on the _Enterprise_  
_screamin 'thug till I die' before I passed out_  
Jim remembers, vaguely. Everyone cried.  
_but now that you're gone I'm in the zone, thinkin_  
Even the biggest baddest security guy Lt. Rashod Saunders  
_I don't wanna die all alone_  
had snot coming out of his nose  
_but now ya gone_  
It was okay, they were among friends._  
and all I got left are stinkin memories—I love them niggas to death, I'm drinkin Hennessey_  
No one was recording them.  
_while tryin to make it last—I drank a fifth for that ass when you passed—cause life goes on—_

During the official funerals, they put on their dress uniforms and wore stone cold faces. Jim thought the Vulcans must've appreciated it. Then afterward, with the _Enterprise_ back in space, the security guys were there for Jim, supporting him in missions as they always had.

_How many brothers fell victim to the streets  
Rest in peace, young nigga, there's a heaven for a G  
Be a lie, if I told you that I never thought of death  
My niggas, we the last ones left—but life goes on—_

Now, sitting back and listening to this guy rap about brothers and death, he thinks that the security guys were really there for Sulu. Helping him sort out his new responsibilities, picking up the slack here and there. They're a tight group. They respect Jim, they respected Spock—as commanding officers. But Sulu—he's something different. They look out for him.

"You remember the Taitt'hin'ghi mission?"

Sulu's voice is even, but it startles Jim.

"Taitt'hin'ghi?" he shakes his head. "Not really."

"The one where you almost died."

"You're gonna have to be a little more specific."

"That's how I think of it. The one where you _really_ almost died."

There are too many missions where Jim 'really almost died,' and they all kind of blur together. Briefing, Spock, transporter room, away team, Spock, tricorder diplomacy reconnaissance Spock, something happens, Spock, etc etc. Sickbay, Bones. Recover, Spock and Spock and Spock. Heart squeezes too tight. He breathes, concentrates on the name Taitt'hin'ghi. But nothing. After being in space for so long and seeing so many new things, the novelty of novelty has worn off.

Then it occurs to him that Sulu's actually talking about something deeper than a mission. He's talking about the moment he realized that Jim could die. Really die. As in not immortal. It seems to come at different times for everyone.

"Oh yeah. That one," he lies. "That one hurt."

"You got your face smashed in."

Funny, that Sulu's moment comes with something so familiar. Jim's face gets smashed in every time he works out with the security guys. They've made it their job. And the last time he sparred, _Sulu_ was the one doing it. It keeps him trained, on his toes—Spock figured out a long time ago that the best way to keep Jim safe was to make Jim his own best weapon. That strategy seemed to work, for the most part.

And there was Spock's head, oozing green blood on the ground.

"You got your face smashed in, and two shifts before that you'd been joking about how you must've held the galactic record for how many times you've broken your nose."

He really doesn't remember this one. He can imagine well enough how Spock would object to that, saying that not all species have noses, etcetera etcetera, but he's drawing a blank here.

"I think I probably still hold the galactic record, if anyone's counting."

"That time, while Doc was reconstructing your face and Chris was trying to stabilize Yota—"

Suddenly, he remembers. Not all. Fragments. Feelings, a senseless and suffocating fear. That, for him, was the mission where Nyota really almost died. She really almost died not during the mission, but from complications of the surgery, slipping, slipping, slipping away from their grasp and Jim couldn't do anything about it breathe from a tube in his biobed. He fell in and out of sleep and every time he had the presence of mind to look for Spock, he saw Spock gripping Nyota's hands, touching her face, willing her to stay.

"That time, I don't remember why but Spock came to my quarters. Just me and him, kind of like us right now. I didn't know he was into rap. He said he liked the wordplay."

Wordplay. Of course it'd be about wordplay, and languages, and rhythm, and structure, and poetry. Of fucking course. Did Jim even know Spock when he was alive? What kind of question is that? They were married. Shared a telepathic bond. Knew _everything_ there was to know about each other, knew each other better than anyone else in the grand fucking galaxy. So then explain to him, someone had better explain to him now and fast why the hell he's finding out so much—and so much that seems fucking important, like the fact that Spock liked rap, of all things—after death? After there's nothing he can do but sit and listen to another guy shot to death in the prime of his life rap about violence, the words 'life goes on' like an inexorable tide, like the passage of motherfucking time itself.

Jim decides right then and there that he hates music. Bones, and Chekov, and now Sulu. It expresses things, it reminds him of things, it leads to things he doesn't want to deal with again for the ten million thousandth time. Worse than that, it does the same thing to others, makes them process their feelings. In the process, Jim gets dragged in again. Fuck that. Jesus Christ, he's not a psychiatrist. As soon as he gets back to his quarters, he's finding something completely meaningless and blasting it as loud as he can. He's been dealing with grief all day. Doesn't want to deal with any more. The thought is selfish and unfair, but now that he's thought it he knows they've all thought it at some point dealing with each other, and he's tired of feeling like he's eating buckets of melting jello.

Sulu is totally oblivious to all this. Which is good. Jim would've regretted it later if Sulu noticed his internal tantrum.

"Spock's the one who gave me this one—it was programmed into the player when they'd installed it. Scotty put in a bunch of stuff too, mostly Scottish drinking songs, a couple of weird-ass ballads, but this one—I thought it was kinda strange. Old, pre-Warp, it's about death.

"He didn't say a word. We both stood there, and he turned it on. Hands were shaking a little. Stood there and listened. I had no idea what he was thinking about. Whether he was thinking about you or Yota or both. Maybe even Vulcan."

_bury me smiling_

Melting, oozing, war, disgusting jello. Sliding down his throat. He doesn't even have to chew.

_with G's in my pocket  
have a party at my funeral let every rapper rock it_

Cherry. Like those cough syrups he used to drink when he was a kid. Red, sticky jello, the same consistency as body fluids. But Spock's blood was green. The color of old American greenbacks. Frank had a stash of two dollar bills that were apparently, once upon a fucking pre-Warp time, rare.

_let the hoes that I used to know, from way before_

They shared rap. For fuck's sake, they had something with each other that Jim never knew about, telepathic bond notwithstanding. Wasn't that thing supposed to give him full disclosure?

_kiss me from my head to my toe_  
_give me a paper and pen so I can write about my life of sin_

Didn't he know everything about Spock? Wasn't he the one who was hurting the most? Wasn't he the one that almost followed Spock to that cool oblivion? Wasn't he? Didn't they have a bond? Didn't they make promises?

_a couple bottles of gin in case I don't get in_

Then why, why the fuck doesn't he know all of Spock's sins? Because he assumed that they were centered around Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the starship _Enterprise_. What was the question Bones had asked him, way back?

_tell all my people I'm a Rider  
nobody cries when we die  
we outlaws, let me ride_

"Why are you mourning Spock's death, Jim? Is it because you miss what he was to you, or because you actually miss him, the person."

_until I get free_

His brilliant answer: "What kind of question is that? He was everything to me."

"Do you miss _him_ or part of yourself?"

"Both. We were bonded. He was part of me."

_I live my life in the fast lane, got police chasin me  
to my niggas from old blocks, from old crews_

This is _not the time_ to have questions like this. Not. The. Time.

_niggas that guided me through back in the old school  
pour out some liquor have a toast for the homies  
see we both gotta die but you chose to go before me_

Did Spock like jello? Had he ever eaten jello? It's got to be some sort of delicacy on some godforsaken planet.

_and brothers miss you while you're gone_

Not the time. Not the time, not the time, so deep into two summers, so far away from Spock's death, so much time after love and sex and marriage. Not the time. But what is grief, if not a reflection of the living? Is it ever truly about the dead? The logic states: the dead don't need grief. The dead don't have two summers.

_you left a nigga on his own  
how long we mourn—life goes on—_

Sulu gets up. Looks straight at Jim.

The dead don't need grief, or songs, or jello, or rap.

"Verse three—always reminded me of you."

Silence. Listening. Jim waits for it—his reflection.

"I always thought you'd go first."

You and me both.

That goes without saying.


	44. Second Summer, 22

There are times when it feels like grief stretches out forever, to the point that it is no longer grief but the grey of everyday existence. Things that seemed to bring him pleasure, release, feeling, whatever, do little for him. There's a point when he wants to stop moving on, only he is, and not in any way that feels satisfying or fulfilling. There are times when he wishes he were religious, just so he could believe in something and somehow get closure. That's what he imagines religion does for people—gives them a sense of closure.

Then there are other times when he remembers, like a clear tune he used to whistle when he was a kid, how much he loved Spock, how much Spock loved him, how much they meant to each other. Looking back, it's all words on paper, but it was something while it lasted. And he gets the vague, uncomfortable feeling that Spock's death is not the end, that two summers are not and never were eternal, that he's going to come out fundamentally changed, and—

Spock will not be there. Spock will remain in his memory, unchanged, beautiful, young, ageless, while Jim ages, goes grey, goes to new places and meets new people and whatever made them work together so well will dissolve, recede like a flower giving way to fruit. He doesn't want that.

He wants that Spock will be the one to induce the changes, he wants Spock at his side as he journeys further, he wants Spock to be shifted closer to him, and that he's always moving closer to Spock. But he finds himself alone and shrinking with the passage of time, afraid that if by some miracle he does meet Spock again, they will be such different people that they won't understand each other at all. That the only substantive thing between them will be memories and if they meet again, they'll be like high school buddies, reminiscing loudly and awkwardly about glory days long past. Then after the beer runs out and the stories run thin, they'll go their separate ways and wonder what happened in the intervening years. Scratch their heads and wonder why they ever loved each other. If they ever loved each other. Did they ever love each other?

That idea is more than Jim can bear. To hypothetically lose Spock again not in death, but because life—more specifically, Jim's life—came between them.

He's afraid that it's not Spock that left him behind but that he's the one who's leaving Spock, by virtue of the fact that time is still flowing, moving, going, for him. By virtue of the fact that Spock is ashes in the desert and Jim is still breathing, cells morphing, organs functioning, blood pumping.

Time. Fucking time. He has no illusions about time and how it works, has no doubt that by the time he dies, maybe even in old age, maybe not, that he might not recognize himself. He barely recognizes the self he was four years ago, eight years ago, twelve years ago. It seems so far away. And if he can't recognize himself, then what hope does he have of Spock recognizing him?

Love put him in a time warp. A time warp in the sense that he didn't mind its passage, he didn't notice its ebb and flow because Spock was there and that was all that mattered. Now that he's alone, he's become so excruciatingly aware of the clock on the bridge that it's all he can do not to bash it in with his fists. Sometimes, he feels as if he's left Spock on a starbase, promising that he'd return. But he never does. He can't, he can't find his way back. He has this dream sometimes he's trying to navigate the _Enterprise_, but the sensors and everything else are down except the display, and he's trying to make his way by the constellations of galaxies. Nothing looks familiar. He wakes up sweating and cursing. These days, he finds himself spending a lot of time in the Observation Deck for reasons he doesn't want to think about. It's impossible to memorize all the permutations of relative galactic positions. But he doesn't want to forget. He desperately doesn't want to leave.

It's already done. That damage is already done because Spock's dead and there's no bringing him back, no shooting a sling around the sun and going back in time. On restless, dreamless nights, he calculates the hundred ways to go back, figure out some way to stop the bullet or something. Avoid the mission altogether, make up some excuse to his superiors. Save Spock. He's done time travel before, it's not a big deal for him or his crew. The only thing that stops him from doing it—if he's going to save Spock, why not save all of Vulcan? They held an interplanetary conference about it, asking why not use the Red Matter to punch a hole and go back? It would take a while to synthesize the stuff, but they had one of the original inventors, after all. And Spock has an eidetic memory. Why not change the continuum again to prevent the biggest loss of life in the history of the Federation?

The council voted against it. The reasons were never very clear, but when Jim asked Spock about it, his answer sounded like this:

Why regret.

You mean, 'why regret?'

No. Not a question. A statement. That is the reason.

He hadn't understood Spock and Spock didn't try to explain. Jim had thought it was a Vulcan thing. Now he's thinking that it was a grief thing. Because time traveling using grief as justification, time traveling using grief as the sole motivation for a set course of actions—that's was what Nero did. Nero milked it for all it was worth, waited 25 years and planned out the whole fucking thing just to inflict his pain on one other person. In the end, was it worth the price?

It's a strange question. He doesn't know who's paying this price, what it's for, what that price entailed in the first place, but the question stays with him. In the end, was it worth the price?

For the first time in his life and the hundredth time in his life, he considers—really stops and thinks about—what Spock must have felt after Vulcan disappeared. And for the first time, and the hundredth, he finds he has no idea. That point of Spock's life is closed to him. They didn't know each other and didn't speak much after the mission. Jim only knew that he needed the Vulcan for his first officer and that was that. He sent his condolences, participated in the Starfleet and Federation mourning ceremonies. But mostly he concentrated on his own Starfleet hearings and the possibilities that lie there. Thinking backs, he feels like an asshole for being psyched out at the prospect of being a captain. His own ship. The _Enterprise_. And he broke a couple dozen records and a few laws getting it. That's all he really cared about.

Why regret.

Why regret. Why regret?

Because, because, because—

Yesterday and yesterday and yesterday.

He's moving away. Further in time, he's moving further away from Spock, no matter how he wants to go back or stop the motion. That's why he regrets. He chose to grieve, and so he chose to live, and he didn't realize everything that choice implied. Is this how Spock felt, hurtling farther and farther away from his people, his culture, his mother, his memories? Is this why he was so terrified of the prospect of a relationship with Jim, because it was more proof the he was far, so far away from where he had been when his world was blown apart? Jim hadn't understood that resistance. The only thing he'd seen was potential—how great they could be together. He never understood what letting _go_ meant. Now that he's the one moving he finds that no matter how tightly he holds on, it slips through his fingers anyway. And still he _will not_ let go.

Because what if there's nothing left? After he lets go, what if there's nothing left?

This time, he really has no answers. No voice of Spock in his head telling him what to do, what he's feeling, why he's feeling it. Nothing. Because Spock didn't have an answer to this either.

Time passes.

Life happens.

Why regret.

Beyond that, there is nothing.

Faced with that—it's not truth because Jim refuses to believe that the truth of the universe is so fucking harsh—faced with that, he stands in the Observation Deck.

Stares at the spread of the galaxy before him.

And tries, fucking desperately tries

to will himself not to cry.


	45. Second Summer, 23

"What's up, Bones?"

"Shouldn't you be on the bridge?"

"Nothing to do. I'm gonna kill that clock if it doesn't stop moving."

"Jim, what the hell?"

"It's nothing. I was kidding."

"Right. You and all the other blue monkeys."

Pause.

"Bones?"

"Yeah?"

"What did you mean, before?"

"Before? Before what?"

"You know."

Bones sighs.

"You're going to have to be a little more specific here, Jim."

He doesn't have the guts to ask. Not yet, anyway.

"Did Spock ever talk to you about Vulcan?"

"Jim, did Spock ever talk to anyone about anything private?"

"You guys talked."

"If you can call it talking."

"He trusted you with…stuff."

"Jim, you're just here to mess with me, aren't you."

"No. Well, sort of. But not really."

"Then can you please at least talk like you've got a brain between your ears? I know you've got one. The elf wouldn't've married you otherwise."

"I guess."

That visibly gives his friend pause. Jim can almost see the gears working.

"All right, spit it out. What're you actually worried about?"

"I'm just saying. Spock talked to you about things he didn't tell me."

"Same could be said for you. Marriage didn't mean you excluded the rest of the world—it meant you included each other deeper in your lives. I thought you knew that."

"I know that."

"Then what's the problem?"

It sounds stupid in his head. It's going to sound stupider when he says it.

"Am I really grieving for Spock?"

Bones narrows his eyes.

"As far as I can see, yes. You're mourning for the green blooded hobgoblin. We've got a summer left to go. Half a summer, more like."

"No, but am I really grieving for him? Who he was? Everything he stood for and shit? Or just… grieving for what he meant to me?"

"Jim, if he didn't mean a helluvalot to you, you wouldn't really be grieving at all."

He shifts on his feet.

"Jesus Christ, Jim. It's not like you to second guess what you're feeling."

"He liked rap."

"And I like my grandmother's sausage gravy, what's that got to do with it?"

"I didn't know. Sulu told me."

Bones waits Jim out.

"We had a bond. I thought I knew everything he was, and then—and then I'm seeing that there's parts of him that I never knew and couldn't touch."

"That doesn't make him any less your husband, and doesn't make your feelings any less legitimate."

"You asked me, way before, if I was mourning for him or for what he meant to me. I didn't know there was a difference."

"It was a stupid question, Jim. I didn't mean it."

"You were right."

"No, I wasn't. Listen Jim—we're human. Sometimes I think we forget that, crisscrossing across this galaxy, meeting a thousand different species that are so damn diverse, I think the Big Bang must've produced a universe with an unfettered imagination. We're human, and it means we aren't a telepathic species. That means a lot of things, but it especially means that we'll never know anyone completely. I hear the Betazoids are so merged together that moving away from their planet feels like a loss of limb for them.

"Us? We're only allowed to see the outlines and get a feel for whatever makes up the essence of their character. When we mourn, I figure that we're mourning for the loss of that image. You were one lucky sonuvabitch, sharing a bond, but it's not surprising that Spock was more than the contents of his relationship with you. That doesn't mean you didn't love each other, and that you don't miss _him_, and everything he was, right now."

"But—"

"Let me put it this way. I miss that pointy-eared Vulcan. You're right that we talked to each other about a lot of things—disagreed and needled each other, but that's besides the point. Are you going to tell me that I don't really miss him because I don't know what it's like to be married to him?"

"No."

"Then I don't see the problem."

If the doubt were that easy to understand, he wouldn't've bothered Bones about it. Why the hell is this bothering him _now_?

"Jim, give it time."

Time.

"I don't want to give it time."

"It ain't like you've got a whole lot of choices."

"I feel like I'm suspended in something."

"The feeling's been going around."

"I'm not tired."

"Yeah? Well that's good to hear, Jim. Speaking as doctor."

"No. No, it's not. I'm awake all the time and I can feel the seconds leaving. I can feel myself forgetting."

Pause.

"I'm not sure that's a bad thing, Jim."

"Why not."

"Spock had an eidetic memory."

"So?"

"So he remembered every second of the _Narada_ mission. Every second, do you understand? The planet, Nero, losing control right here on this bridge—his mother. He'd turn up in Sickbay with this expression on his face—I never asked, but M'Benga mentioned that Spock requested some extra instruction manuals on intensive meditation and emotional suppression. The next time Chris took inventory, she told me that some sedatives were missing. I didn't make too many guesses about where they went, and I didn't like Spock back then, so I didn't pry. Figured I'd only set him off."

"I don't get what you're trying to say."

"Jim, I don't think that an eidetic memory is a blessing, when it comes down to it. Spock remembered everything. Every face and name we lost, their rank, whether they had families, their academic records, maybe even what they had for breakfast. Can you imagine what that does to a man? It's not something I'd want."

He gets the point, he really does. All the same. He can't name what he's feeling right now. This doesn't feel strictly like grieving. It feels like surprise, and anger, and fear, and confusion—and the one person he wants answers from isn't there, and this time Jim has questions that have answers. Very real, very concrete, very Spock answers attached to them.

Why didn't he bother asking? Why didn't he think about it when Spock was alive? And in the back of his mind, what he's really asking is—why didn't Spock tell him?

It's clear, it's becoming so clear that their relationship wasn't perfect and if Spock had continued living, they would have had problems. More trust issues to deal with. More things about their past to work with. There would have been sex, there would have been great adventures with their crew, and there would have been some huge fights that reverberated through the ship and left the crew cowering and them not speaking to each other for at least four shifts. They were flawed, despite the marriage, despite the bond, despite everything that Jim idealized and exalted. Who was he kidding? They'd always argued, they always had problems, but he'd forgotten the sting of it. It all turned into a haze of golden light when he looked back, and he told himself that he'd rather have Spock alive and spitting nails than dead.

That's still true. He stands by it. But fuck. Fucking shit-shiner Vulcan. This realization hurts, and it hurts all the more because he can't do anything about it. Too late to make amends and that idiotic paranoid piece of rational suppression. After everything they've been through. After _everything_ they'd been through. He pulls something like this on Jim _after death_. Haunting doesn't even begin to cover this.

"Your marriage."

"My divorce, you mean."

"That. Did you try to fix it?"

"What?"

"Did you try to fix it?"

Bones suddenly looks tired.

"What's this got to do with anything, Jim?"

Jim looks at him.

"Spock liked rap. He helped Scotty beam fifteen grapefruits across the Alpha Quadrant. He published a paper with Chekov about the physics of wormholes, comparing them to subspace warp bubbles. He survived Vulcan and he decided to be my First Officer. I have no clue about any of this. So, did you try to fix it?"

Bones' eyes are focused on some point in the past.

"Did I try to fix it? I guess not, Jim. If I'd tried hard enough, she'd've taken me back and I wouldn't be here right now," he turns his eyes to Jim. "I think you already knew that."

He wants to ask Bones—do you think, if Spock were still alive, would we still be together?

It's a question he's _never_ considered since Spock's death and it opens a whole new level to the 'what if' game. Yet in the end, it feels like he's just grasping at straws, and that the question is meaningless. Whether Spock liked rap or not, whether he transported grapefruits or wrote papers about wormholes, it wouldn't have broken their marriage. Those are details—mundane, kind of nice to know, but not important in life or death, really. Issues like Vulcan and why Spock joined—those are the big ones, but Jim always assumed that they'd end dealing with them later. When they had time.

It's because he's suddenly not sure which details are important and which ones aren't, which ones he can afford to lose in the morass of time and which ones he should never forget. Should he write them down? Should he keep logs? Should he write a dissertation, like Pike did about Jim's father? Should he keep talking to his crew, keep the memory of Spock in conversations and anecdotes? How does one go about preserving a person against the rust of seconds? How can someone really transcend death if human memories rot in unreliable ways? Can he remember the sound of Spock's voice? Can he remember the texture of Spock's hair? He has a feeling that he's already forgotten, but doesn't know he's forgotten and will only be certain he's forgotten if he's confronted with a living, breathing Spock again.

How much of Bones' marriage does he remember? And what? Did the memories sour? Are they wrapped in a haze of gold tissue paper? Are they bitter? Do they smell like acid eating through copper?

Bones sees what Jim's struggling with, and he doesn't answer. He's not going there. Divorce and death—for Christ's sakes. The things Jim's mind dreams up. Separation, yes. Painful, yes. Bitter, in different ways. A lot of things line up, but his marriage was nothing like Jim's bond with Spock, so there's no point in making any sort of comparisons. They loved each other. That love faded. Some of it was due to circumstance, some of it was squarely on his guilty shoulders, but hell if he was going to visit his mistakes and hypotheticals again for the fiftieth time. It wasn't like Jim and Spock, and it carries a different quality of grief, one that's mixed with more ambiguity and less closure than death. Closure because death is final, not closure because death brings closure.

They stand there, unable to reach each other. As much as this powerful feeling brings him closer to all his crew, Bones is right. Outlines and essence. That's all he'll ever know, all he'll ever see except for a brilliant few years in his life when he shared a bond with a powerful touch telepath who, despite his reticence and natural reserve, opened himself in a way he never had before for anyone else. So yeah, Jim is slightly nervous and pissed off by the fact that Spock left with unfinished business between them, but he's also grateful he had that open exchange at all. A lot of people might know a lot of other things about Spock, but Jim knew Spock best and as childish as the feeling is, he'll settle for that. For now. This feeling will come back later, make no mistake about it. For now Spock, and Spock's love, and Spock's bond, and Spock's vows—are still his.

He was always kind of possessive and illogical when it came to Spock.

Right now, he should make it up to Bones. It's a touchy subject at best, and Jim blew through the doctor's self constructed boundaries when he decided to broach the subject trying to get some reassurance for himself. So.

"Want to get some dinner?"


	46. Second Summer, 24

There are days when Jim and all his crew lose their faith in sentience and civilization.

On the twelfth year anniversary of the establishment of Vulcan II, some asshat tried to direct a missile to one of the colony cities. It was effectively neutralized, but the news left Jim shaking and vomiting in his quarters.

They've been through so much and seen so much that it seems they should have lost whatever faith they had a long time ago. In some ways they have. Every crewmember goes through a time when they're disillusioned of all the pretty ideas of how a starship is run, how firefights are actually fought, how casualties actually look, how those emotions actually feel. How some cultures are actually that repressive, how the Prime Directive prevents them from stopping devastating wars. And on a more intimate level, Jim's aware how recruits become disillusioned with him after they see past his carefully groomed persona. Every crewmember on the _Enterprise_ must eventually come to terms with the fact that their captain is human, that he makes mistakes, that he is working through his own intensely personal issues, that he is not going to be the paragon of Right and Good and Truth that everyone wants him to be.

But not like this.

This? This is extermination. This is something that should never even occur to anyone as a good idea. This is something that can never be justified by ideology, never truly described in words.

That's not the damning part. The damning part is that while the media's making a ruckus on the nets, Jim's pretty sure that the average Joe doesn't give a fuck. He knows from experience, from history. That's the point of extermination. There's no one _left_ who gives a fuck, and no one left _to give_ a fuck about.

You can make people do a lot of things. You can force them, manipulate them, bribe them, brainwash them, teach them, guide them, manage them, use them, please them, fuck them, kill them, order them. Take your pick. Jim's a captain. He knows exactly the kinds of things you can do to people and the kinds of things you can make them do.

But you can't force them to care. You can't force them to give two shits about something they don't give two shits about. You can argue with them, you can reason with them, you can show people holovids or read emotional texts, and make them listen. They might have to think. You can tell them to watch. But caring? That's something you can't control.

The fucking power of apathy. The face of indifference. The blank stare, the wall of watchers who see but turn away. Who do nothing. Who offer the fucking craven excuse that they're decent and ordinary and it's the system that victimizes. That they're powerless or afraid. Maybe. Or maybe it was because they just didn't fucking care.

But what does it do for the dead to care? What does it do for the dead if you rage at the apathetic? What does it do when that doesn't take away the fact that they are dead, they will never come back, it may not matter to them whether or not justice is served. What does it do for them if Jim and his crew start caring? Too little, too late. They arrived at the planet too late—Starfleet didn't even know it was happening—and the extermination was already done. Complete. Nothing left, not even samples of the dust.

Who's responsible? Who's to blame? Who do you bring to justice? Can there be justice? What are you mourning, when you mourn the extermination of an entire species? Why are you shaking at the thought of an ancient nuclear weapon wiping out a precious remnant of the surviving population? Do you rage at yourself, count the different ways things could've turned out? Do you yell at the masses, for doing nothing, for never speaking, for being so fucking impotent? And if you mourn these deaths, why stop there? Why not continue mourning for the other worlds and other times, other histories, other species? Why not pass through life thinking about all the atrocities committed against groups and individuals every day? Why not be consumed by the shittiness of the universe and overcompensate for everyone else who doesn't care?

In some ancient human civilizations, they had professional mourners. These people were paid be in funeral processions, tear the clothes and gnash their teeth, wail and moan and cry as if they had lost their own mother or lover or child or whatever. Or there's that belief in some religions that there were special group of individuals—thirty or some small number, who were born to carry the grief of the world in them. It was their duty, it was their fate, to feel the suffering of the universe, so that others wouldn't have to. So that others could be indifferent and self absorbed and go about their daily lives never knowing, always ignorant.

But in the end, the question returns to this: what does that grief—the feelings of a stranger given to a stranger—do for those who suffer?

It doesn't alleviate anything. It doesn't change the situation. What use is sadness in the wider scheme of things? Does it prevent exterminations? Does it prevent tragedies, or murders, or even death come unexpected in an accident? If apathy is damning, what about this blanket of mourning? Maybe you just get off on feeling the tragedy. Maybe it's all about the pathos and catharsis you feel, not about the loss of someone else at all.

That's almost what happened to Vulcan.

That's what Nero wanted. He wanted Spock, the other one, to feel his pain. Drunk on it, he wanted everyone to feel his pain. And the Romulan miners? They just followed orders. The Federation after the destruction of Vulcan? Mourned, but were also scrambling to cover their bases.

Don't even talk to him about Tarsus IV.

They say that fresh trauma brings back to the surface old traumas, old hurts. It's a spiraling cycle, the way your understanding of past events changes, the way that new wounds inflicted rip open old scars again and again. Reflected and doubling back, circling around and catching you off guard.

Why is it that one full summer after Spock's death and several years after the destruction of Vulcan, he's experiencing that grief like it just happened? Because of some nut job who decided he'd finish what Nero started?

And who are these apathetic masses he keeps condemning in his mind? Is it himself, the young, brash, bold savior of Earth?


	47. Second Summer, 25

The Federation and Starfleet want Jim to give some comments about the recent events that nearly transpired on Vulcan II. Jim tells them to go fuck themselves. Nyota convinces him to give the interview. She doesn't quite pull the Spock card—there's something in his eyes that have turned feral and she knows him well enough to understand that using Spock's memory in a time like this is unforgiveable. He emotionally compromised Spock by forcing the memory of his mother, the words _you never loved her_ reverberating in his head. Anyone who so much as mentions Spock, makes oblique references, Jim is going to lose his shit. He is not going to stop. There's no Sarek around to force him into shaky rationality and make him understand that he is motherfucking emotionally compromised. Because he is. It takes everything he has to keep it together.

The entire team writes the fucking transcript for him. Sulu forces him to rehearse it with him because the first time, his answers came out monotone, the second time his voice was shaking with rage, the third time he smashed the datapad and left the bridge. He resents them for making him do this, everything on the _Enterprise_ is suddenly ugly and brittle. He wants to be left alone, not reflecting for the millionth time on his grief reflecting Spock's for years ago when Vulcan disappeared and Amanda Grayson wasn't at the end of Spock's outstretched hand. Jim was trying to deal with the implications of Spock's choices and the silence of Spock's grief on his own terms and his own time, only some Nero type decided Vulcans had to go. What the fuck. Who even. How does this ever compute.

There are things the Federation wants to hear. They want to talk about the possible political ramifications, what it reveals about the state of defense today, what this means in the neverending balance of power games between Klingons, Cardassians, the Alpha Quadrant besides. The Federation wants James T. Kirk's opinion as a diplomatic and military representative "out in the trenches," so to speak, with his impeccable credentials and personal experience. Does he think this is a sign of rising Romulan aggression, he think that the Federation should look into advancing Red Matter technology?

There are things Starfleet wants him to say, as that diplomatic and military representative fighting the good fight patrolling Neutral Zones and rubbing elbows with alien dignitaries. There are images they want him to project of confidence, security, courage, the easy smile of Captain Kirk that has reassured millions of Federation citizens everywhere that their lives are protected by good, capable, handsome and eternally youthful hands. And Jim—he can't say any of that shit. Because it's not true. It doesn't feel true anymore. There was a time when it felt true, but he's not immortal anymore. They're not immortal anymore.

He resents the Federation, Starfleet, the reporters, his crew, for pushing him into this interview to say things with a smile that feels wrong and soothe the vague worry away because what's the point of lulling people into a false sense of comfort? This isn't about security, it's about comfort, political polls, elections, sound bite ad campaigns running all over the nets for the next FedCouncil elections. What he wants to say isn't to the masses, but to the Vulcans. He wants to give them the words they gave him. He wants to say on intergalactic news channels "I grieve with thee" and have them understand that he means it. Feels it this time. He never apologized to the Vulcans for failing to save their planet. He knows they don't hold it against him, Spock knew that Vulcan haunted Jim in different ways. This is different. He wants to address the colony and breathe the words "I grieve with thee" because if the thought of a missile is terrifying and emotionally compromising for him, he can't imagine what it must be like for Vulcans. Vulcans with eidetic memories, Vulcans who survived and were there, felt the ground shake under their feet. They lost everything. And knowing that someone out there wants them to be lost completely? That hatred and apathy are implacable? No one should have to face that twice. Yet they are.

He never apologized to Vulcans for failing to save their planet. He didn't think fast enough, didn't consider that someone should try and beam that thing falling towards the planet to the farthest corner of space. He didn't know it would be that way. They didn't know destruction could be that complete. He had all these excuses and pleas—the worst part is they understood. They've never held it against him. They've never welcomed him either, never considered him a brother-in-arms, didn't force on him the grief that only they could understand. Now all he has is overwhelming silence, and fear, and rage, and suffocating helplessness. The only words he can offer are their own. People shouldn't use this. People do anyway. A price paid in billions of lives should be untouchable. For better or worse, it isn't. Jim knows. He used it to get his own ship, build a crew, do what he wanted, meet the love of his life. It shakes him to think how thoughtless he was, he vomits in the quarters thinking that if Nero had never attacked, he might never have married Spock. What kind of exchange is that? Spock would look at him and say he is committing a major fallacy of logic, that their love was not a foregone conclusion because of Nero's actions, but isn't it true, on some level? The experience brought them together in strange and irrevocable ways. He never apologized to Vulcans for failing to save their planet because—maybe he was comfortable ignoring the cost. He never asked Spock about it. He _never_ asked.

This missile is pulling apart the cohesion of his crew. He's getting snappy at them, and they're getting angry with him. Spock's death has come to mean different things for them all, and Jim's realizing that Spock's death might only be _Spock's_ death to some of them. Some of the ensigns weren't even cadets when Nero happened. Is it unfair of him to want them to understand this—whatever it is—as he's come to understand it? Is that why Spock never volunteered to talk about it, just kept it wrapped deep inside himself? Jim is emotionally compromised. A missile is touching off Spock and Vulcan all at once, and it's all he can not to fall to his knees and scream _why_. His core crew have withdrawn—he can see them dealing with their own demons. They weren't a group then. They were the faint beginnings of what they are now, they had no idea what they'd become. Spock was their first officer, Spock was the one who held things together when Pike was captured, Jim was the stowaway encouraging mutiny. In times of crisis, you don't want your crew confused about who's in charge. Jim wanted to be in charge. Said he knew what had to be done, fucked in the head as he was by the mind meld. Was such an asshole about it that he used every advantage. Spock, instead of fighting him all the way, gracefully abdicated not only for his own sake, but for the sake of the crew. Not only that, but he _came back_, to work _under_ Jim's command. They took their cues from Spock.

In some ways, in a lot of ways, it was Spock who saved Earth. The decision—not just flying the ship of Red Matter. Jim thought, everyone thought this entire time that because Jim came up with the plan and fought the Romulans, he was the one who essentially saved Earth—practically single-handedly. But Spock, in his emotional compromise, was the one who let him. Admitting, at enormous cost to himself, in front of his father no less, that he was emotionally compromised. Jim has never known when to quit—it's almost a defining characteristic. Spock saw, in that moment, that there are some things you are powerless against. That the sign of wisdom is knowing which forces you can fight, and which forces you must submit to. Not all things are won by mulishly pushing away. In the wake of a Romulan's mad grief churning with genocidal rage, Spock admitted defeat. Conceded that he could not win a fight against himself. Looking back, Jim sees that he had more in common with Nero than he had with Spock because he better understood the rage that fueled Nero to destroy entire worlds than the desperation that ripped through Spock to force unwanted epiphanies. No one wants to feel powerless. But it is a fact. Nero, rather than face his helplessness, denied it vehemently. Spock accepted it. Accepted it, then determined he could still make a difference in the universe. Accepted it, then decided he wanted to make that difference standing at Jim's side.

There are no words. Jim spends an hour before the interview locked in the Observation Deck, staring at the stars and his faint reflection. Nyota's the one who comes to him, using her override. Stands by his side quietly, like Spock would have, then tells him it's fifteen minutes. He's needed on the bridge.

Bones, before Jim sits down, slips something into his hand.

Robert F. Kennedy, 1968, Indianapolis:

_Ladies and Gentlemen, _

_I'm only going to talk to you just for a minute or so this evening, because I have some - some very sad news for all of you - Could you lower those signs, please? - I have some very sad news for all of you, and, I think, sad news for all of our fellow citizens, and people who love peace all over the world; and that is that Martin Luther King was shot and was killed tonight in Memphis, Tennessee._

_Martin Luther King dedicated his life to love and to justice between fellow human beings. He died in the cause of that effort. In this difficult day, in this difficult time for the United States, it's perhaps well to ask what kind of a nation we are and what direction we want to move in. For those of you who are black - considering the evidence evidently is that there were white people who were responsible - you can be filled with bitterness, and with hatred, and a desire for revenge._

_We can move in that direction as a country, in greater polarization - black people amongst blacks, and white amongst whites, filled with hatred toward one another. Or we can make an effort, as Martin Luther King did, to understand, and to comprehend, and replace that violence, that stain of bloodshed that has spread across our land, with an effort to understand, compassion, and love._

_For those of you who are black and are tempted to fill with - be filled with hatred and mistrust of the injustice of such an act, against all white people, I would only say that I can also feel in my own heart the same kind of feeling. I had a member of my family killed, but he was killed by a white man._

_But we have to make an effort in the United States. We have to make an effort to understand, to get beyond, or go beyond these rather difficult times._

_My favorite poem, my - my favorite poet was Aeschylus. And he once wrote:_

Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget  
falls drop by drop upon the heart,  
until, in our own despair,  
against our will,  
comes wisdom  
through the awful grace of God.

_What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love, and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black._

_So I ask you tonight to return home, to say a prayer for the family of Martin Luther King - yes, it's true - but more importantly to say a prayer for our own country, which all of us love - a prayer for understanding and that compassion of which I spoke._

_We can do well in this country. We will have difficult times. We've had difficult times in the past, but we - and we will have difficult times in the future. It is not the end of violence; it is not the end of lawlessness; and it's not the end of disorder._

_But the vast majority of white people and the vast majority of black people in this country want to live together, want to improve the quality of our life, and want justice for all human beings that abide in our land._

_And let's dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world. Let us dedicate ourselves to that, and say a prayer for our country and for our people._

He does the interview. He thinks about Aeschylus. Grieves for Vulcan.

Later, Bones tells him that Robert Kennedy was killed two months later, five years after his brother John was assassinated.

Jim breaks down.

Curses history.


	48. Second Summer, 26

Sometimes Jim feels like grief hasn't taught him anything. He imagines he's the same person now as before he met Spock, after he kissed Spock, when he was married to Spock. Sometimes Jim feels like so much time has passed within two summers that he's a stone—exactly the same. There has been no change except for the physical presence of Spock, one moment there, the next moment gone. Jim finds old habits he'd forgotten reasserting themselves. He can be cruel, he sometimes is. He can be uncaring. The grief that burned so long and torturously hot in him now can't even produce the embers of empathy. He's sometimes strangely callous towards the suffering of others, forgets funerals and distances himself from people who are hurting. He can feel old walls going back up. He can't remember who he was when Spock was alive. Everything is confused. He's tired of thinking about grief, feeling about grief, defining the entirety of his existence through the death of a single person who used to mean the world to him and still does, but the world doesn't mean so much to him anymore now that he's gone. Spock would enjoy that twisted logic. Bones definitely does.

Sometimes Jim feels like if anything, grief taught him a few lessons, he passed with flying colors—that doesn't mean he'll live by them any more than people live by the laws of relativity. Warp doesn't count, it's like a fucking afterthought. He gets it. Grief is brutal, he was a neophyte, can we move on now? Because there's a ship to fly, missions to run, never mind that every meal tastes like nutritional ash and he feels himself sink further into apathy. He's falling. He doesn't know how to stop, doesn't know if he wants to stop, doesn't know if this is a part of mourning or if it's particular to James Tiberius Kirk. There's a point when you get fucked over by the universe enough times that you seize the horns of fate and defy it just to feel high, bring your own brand of justice, inflict revenge. There's a point beyond when you get fucked over by the universe so many times that you abdicate all responsibility for your actions and everything is guided by the immutable laws of physics. Spock dying? Beyond the fucking pale. He thought he could emerge from this a better person, more empathetic and more human, but what if it just makes him worse? What if he doesn't care? What if Spock's death is the thing that breaks him to the point he doesn't care if he's fixed, doesn't remember if he's broken? Everything feels the same. Everything is the same. What difference does it make?

He can't be bothered to produce feelings anymore. The galaxy that used to thrum with life is stagnating, slowing, disintegrating into meaninglessness that he can't remember why it was important in the first place. The change that used to inspire him now only seems to go in circles, neither forward nor backward, only in sameness disguised as evolution. Grief changes people, but most people Jim encounters seem to remain the same. Retain their defining faults and characteristics with such dizzying tenacity that he feels he's in the Twilight Zone watching reruns of a past life. Bones is still irascible, slightly unstable, fanatical. Nyota—comes off as smug, distant, condescending. Christine—emotional. Chekov—neurotic. Scotty is crazy. Sulu is smarmy. Jim—has faults like everyone else, doesn't want to hear about them, shut up and go back to your station. He has no idea when he stopped being generous and when everyone around him started to annoy him. Has grief given him clearer vision, the ability to see things for what they are and name them? Or has grief simply made him a miser?

Maybe nothing's changed. Maybe grief's like a tidal wave—after that initial shock of water and force bearing down over you, everything returns to the way it was. A few rearrangements in sand, but the water's the same. Maybe grief, after the dust settles, has only disillusioned him more deeply than all the other shit that came before, stripped him of all his pretensions and in doing so made him cling to those pretensions harder. What good is his life, his power as captain, if he can't even protect the person he loved most? What good is anything he tries to do if in the end, he wasn't there when Spock died and couldn't save him? What does it matter that they escaped death a thousand times when all it took was the one time to split Spock's head open and leave his brains splattered on the ground? Or this fucking missile to the Vulcan colony. What good is his power if it can't prevent atrocities that should never happen? What's the point of it all? Why bother trying? There was a time he thought he could change the universe and move galaxies by the force of his will. What is the point of it all if he can't bring Spock back from the dead, couldn't be there with him to die in his stead? What is the point?

Because this grief has settled into his body, it's become a fact of his life. He doesn't struggle with it anymore, he's already gotten used to it and has learned to live with it and it feels like it's always been true—Spock has always been dead, Jim has always felt this dead. It's a terrible thing, this new state of grey that's descended, because it's frictionless and deep as a mine shaft and he can't bring himself to get up on his elbows and dig out of it. He's stuck at the bottom of a pit of sand. No matter how he tries to climb the sand gives way under his feet and he's swept to the bottom again, buried in the cascade. He'll drown in sand before he even sees the top of the dune. The only way anyone can get out is with the help of another person offering a ladder down. But even if there were a ladder, what would he do when he got out? It's a fucking desert for miles around and the only thing Jim sees about the emotional landscapes of fucked up people is that they're buried in sand too. Nothing grows here.

With apathy comes tired happiness, tired anger, tired sleep. Not exhaustion that drains bodies and knocks people into coma-like trances, but a functional tiredness that allows existence to slip by, day after day, without wanting anything more than more of the same. Jim is tired of being tired, but not tired enough to do anything about it. Jim is tired of missing Spock, but not tired enough to move from half memory, half forget. Tired of the _Enterprise_ but not tired enough to leave, tired of the company he keeps but not tired enough to tell them about it. He's slipping away, he knows, and he doesn't know what to do because it feels inevitable. If he's honest, he'll admit that he lost meaning when he lost Spock and he tried, for a while, to soldier through it and create meaning again in the hole that it left. But why did this have to happen, why did everything have to change, why can everything go back to the way it was before when he was unspeakably happy and unspeakably lucky? Everything is the same. He's not more human, he's the same human. He's not braver, or stronger, or deeper, or better for this. He might be worse. This isn't who he is, but who's to say who he was before he met Spock? That seems like an eternity ago. Who's to say he's not more who he is now than he was before? Saying he's not who he is implies there was some idea of who he should be, but the only person who ever had a complete picture of that idea was Spock. Spock is dead, Spock is not who he should be because who he should be is alive. Jim is hurting, knows he's hurting, doesn't know what to do about it anymore because he's been hurting for so long it seems he's always been hurting. Jim Kirk isn't supposed to throw in the towel, Jim Kirk's supposed be a superhuman captain. Jim Kirk is the same person he was and that person is spinning with pain so old and deep, it's no longer a hypothetical of his existence.

They never told him this about grief. They never told him that grief as an emotion is so ancient and long that it wears you down until you can't recognize yourself, until the image of who you are seems to be the image of who you've always been. Grief has had much more time to perfect its strategies and ensure the people it touches come out catatonic, crushed, demoralized to the point they're more dead than living. Jim thinks that Nero, if he'd stayed to ride his feelings, after having sacrificed the Federation would have descended into a stupor so fucking inert, he'd probably have turned into stone. Jim knows because that's what's happening to him right now. He hopes Spock would forgive him, but he's not sure he actually cares.


End file.
